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ENLARGKD AND IMPROVED. 



SCHOOLDAY 



DIALOG-UES: 



A COLLECTION OF 



ORIGINAL DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES, 
TABLEAUX, ETC., 



DESIGNED FOR 



SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS, LYCEUMS, LITERAKY SOCIETIES, 

SUiXDAY SCHOOLS, TEMPERANCE MEETINGS, 

PARLOR ENTERTAINMEiNTS, ETC., ETC. 



COMPILED BY 

ALEXANDER CLARK, 

AUTHOa OF " THE OLD LOG SCHOOL HOUSE," " THe' GOSPEL IN THE TEEfiS,'* 
" WORKDAY CHRISTIANITY," ETC., ETC. 



PHILADELPHIA: \ft^<?Uiwc=^0' 

J. W. DA UGH AD AY & ^^O^p^^'^ 

434 AND 436 WALNUT STREET. 






^^'2' 



<\\ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 

J. W. DAUGHADAY & CO., 

In the Clerk's OflSce of the United States District Court in and for the 
District of Pennsylvania. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 

J. W. DAUGHADAY & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 




PREFAC E 



Out of several hundred manuscript Dialogues, written 
in response to a liberal proposition made by the Pub- 
lishers, we have chosen for publication about one-sixth, 
taking the editorial liberty of condensing, changing, or 
otherwise modifying here and there, such as are now 
presented in this volume. We ha^e sought to furnish 
as great a -variety in sentiment and style as possible, 
always keeping in view the fact that Dialogues, to be 
interesting and profitable, must be acted as well as 
uttered. 

Since this work first appeared, we have made several 
revisions of the original matter, substituting from time 
to time fresh and timely Dialogues for those which 
seemed to have grown out of date, and in the present 
edition have increased the size of the volume by the 
addition of some twenty pages of entirely new pieces. 

(3) 



4 P Pv E F A C E . 

There is no species of recitation in which young peo- 
ple take more delight, or evince more enthusiasm, than 
Declamation or Dialogue; and with a judicious selec- 
tion of subject, and a natural manner of representation 
by voice and gesture, there is no better medium of cul- 
tivating a beautiful and effective style of elocution. It 
is impossible to teach reading successfullj^, and to 
excite an ambition in the breast of the pupil in this rare 
and pleasing accomplishment, without using lessons 
that call out the natural, conversational tones, the phra- 
seology of every-day life, the vim and voice of repartee 
in play, in work, in trade, in the most common happen- 
ings of home, or school, or journey, or occasion what- 
soever. In a Dialogue, a youngster needs no stilts on 
which to stretch himself and stalk forward on the high, 
dead level of language above his years. Here he feels 
his words, and enjo3^s their utterance as his own. Here 
he naturally uses the proper tone, inflection, and modu- 
lation, and, without knowing it as a rule, glides into the 
grace of delivery because he watches the ^immediate 
effect and listens to the consequent responses of the 
words he utters and means. The vocabulary of these 
Dialogues is not bej^ond the daily scenes and sounds 
and sentiments of Schoolda3's. 

Although this Book is composed for the most part of 
carefully written and substantial subject-matter, we have 
admitted quite a number of humorous and amusing 
pieces. The proportion of the latter may be greater 
th'm will be approved by certain melancholy religionists 



PREFACE. 5 

who would infuse their moan into the very babblings of 
the brook and laughters of the breeze. But we hare 
not so far out-grown our own childhood as to depreciate 
the joys of innocent mirth, or to say that the only 
method of correcting bad habits, of language or of life, 
is to frown upon them, or pretend not to see them, or 
dolefully to sigh and sorrow over them as misfortunes 
of the fall, and endure them under the name of crosses. 
Such a self-inflicted penance is more heterodox, in our 
humble judgment, than any creed, which, .gospel-like, 
aims to correct these every-day errors of the people. 
Sometimes, indeed, a bit of ridicule, if ingeniously ren- 
dered, is more effectual in destroying an evil of temper 
or of tongue than would be a hundred homiletic dis- 
courses on human depravity, or a temple echoed full of 
daily prayers that word themselves in the phrases of 
Pharisaism. TTe anticipate the criticisms of the would- 
be models of propriety — the be-solemn bachelorhood of 
literature — and willingly bargain for all their censures 
by giving in exchange our commiseration. It is an old 
saying that " the true orator must know how to excite 
the mirth, as well as how to command the fears of his 
audience.'' If the children shall enjoy this book, and 
are thereby aided in discovering wrong habits or danger 
ous tendencies in themselves or others, and are in any 
degree stimulated to better manners and happier life, 
by reading and acting these Dialogues, our object Avill 
have been more than accomplished, and our time and 
cave more than rewarded. 



6 PREFACE. 

The art of feeling, and of teaching others how to feel 
the force of language, is most readily acquired from 
the speaking of Dialogues. There is a captivation 
about an exercise that requires a fellow-actor which 
enlists the best attention, not only of the performers 
themselves, but also of the auditors. The speaker re- 
alizes that he is to impress his hearers as much by the 
manner as by the matter of his discourse. Mere routine 
reading, paragraph by paragraph, in parrot-like regula- 
rity of sound, as a task to be told, will become as mo- 
notonous as a bell that is tolled. 

It is said of a prosy minister, that, while, on a cer- 
tain occasion, he was reading to his congregation a 
chapter from the Bible, he put several of his hearers to 
sleep. His voice was keyed to a meaningless mono 
tone, and his whole manner was as spiritless and a?- 
senseless as the muttering of a mill. For some minis- 
ters do go, as machines, by some sort of fuel-fed force, 
rather than by the vital impulses of head and heart, as 
men. So went he, and as an inevitable consequence, he 
rumbled the people off into the land of dreams. Then, 
looking up from his book, and seeing his hearers 
soothed under his voice like babes by mothers' lullabies, 
he became indignant at their stupidity, and wishing to 
make a direct impression, his feeling took action, and 
he seized the Bible with both hands and hurled it at 
their heedless heads, saying, in a far more natural and 
honest manner than that in which he had been reading, 
" If you will not hear the truth, you miserable sinners, 



PEEFACE. 7 

I am determined to make you feel it." That minister 
never delivered a more eloquent passage in his life. He 
felt what he said, if he did not feel what he was reading, 
and he made the people feel just what he felt himself, 
and perhaps some of them a little morel He was 
aroused and in earnest ; then tone, emphasis, and modu- 
lation, and gesture were natural. He did a foolish 
thing ; but he did it in a forcible and striking manner. 

We have sometimes thought that many clergymen, 
teachers, and parents will have a fearful account to ren- 
der for the indifference with which they read the Scrip- 
tures. What beauties, sympathies, grandeurs, and 
glories are perverted and mutilated by the task-readers 
of the Sacred Word ! The devil could not more effect- 
ually burlesque religion than to employ certain dj'spep- 
tic professors of it, to go about reading the Bible I 
Eyes have they, but they see not. Tongues have they, 
but they talk not. Hearts have they, but they feel not 
They repulse the smiling children by their funereal 
solemnities when nobody has died ! 

!N'ot long since we heard the eightieth Psalm read 
with such a cog-wheel coarseness and clatter of expres- 
sion that the beautiful petition, " Turn us again," sound- 
ed as though it would all be chipped to pieces in the 
machinist's lathe. Frequently on funeral occasions, in 
our hearing, has the fifteenth chapter of the First Epis- 
tle to the Corinthians been so attacked, so wounded, so 
slain, so utterl}' buried b}^ professional friends to its 
glorious truth, that it really seemed to us that there 



8 PREFACE. 

would be no resurrection for ever I When will teachers 
and preachers use the means that are natural, accessible, 
and efficient, in training the young to read as they talk ? 
We verily believe that many of the sectarianisms of the 
religious world, arise from an ignorance of the rules of 
emphasis in reading the Bible, rather than from any 
distinct meanings of the truth upon the Blessed Pages. 

An intelligent young Christian student was noticed 
to come into chapel service every day regularly after 
the Scripture lesson and singing were finished. The 
Professor called him to an account for his delinquency, 
and he excused himself on the ground of very tender 
feelings, not being able to endure the butchery of hymn 
and Scripture. Said he : " My mother used to read the 
Bible to me, and I can't associate those hallowed memo- 
ries with the heartless roughness I must hear in this 
chapel. I canH do ity He was excused, and the pul- 
pit readings were improved thereafter. 

The subject of reading, or elocution, should occupy, 
if not more time, more attention. The young should 
be taught to read as they talk, freely, feelingly, with 
the spirit, with the understanding, with all the emphasis 
and action of graceful gesture. Enthusiasm must be 
excited, in some way, ambition aroused, and the natural 
voice called out as a response to the questionings of 
common sense. 

If these Schoolday Dialogues shall be properly 
studied, their lessons fully understood, and their spirit 
fully realized, their delivery will be, we trust, so accept- 



r E E F A C E . 9 

able and so impressive, that our well-intended labors 
may not have been in vain. 

Alexander Clark. 



OOE"TEE-TS 



True Manliness M. L. R. 15 

The Tobacco Pledge Elizabeth E. Ralston. 30 

The New Muff and Collar Kate E. Peet. 34 

Choose your Words Barbara Broome. 38 

Effects of War Ceria. 44 

The Two Interpreters of Dreams Hattie Herbert. 49 

The Four Seasons Louise E. V. Boyd. 54 

»^School Affairs in Eiverhead District ... C. W. Deans. 58 

\.NovEL Reading 67 

The Demons of the Glass Oliver Optic. 70 

The Twelve Months. Henry H Johnson. 75 

The New Preacher Silonius. 78 

The Seasons » Hattie Home. 82 

Little Angels Emma G. Hollinger. 87 

The Young Statesman Beno. 92 

Two Ways of Life H G. H. 95 

Too Good to attend Common School Eliza Doolittle. 97 

Fireside Colloquy Joseph W. Leatherman. 101 

Pocahontas Mary Hartwell.. 106 

Beauty of Face and Beauty of SouL..^6&ee J. Thornton. 109 

Uncle Zeke's Opinion W. H. Sabean. 113 

Spelling Class D. R. BrubaJcer. 120 

TheI Two Teachers Hattie Herbert. 124 

(11) 



12 CONTENTS. 

Memory and Hope Mrs. L E. V. Boyd. 127 

A Contentious Community Eureka, 132 

Lost and Found Emma E. Brewster. 138 

The Tri-Colors Emma Fields. 142 

Annie's Party L. A. B. C. 144 

The Beclaimed Brother ; or, | ^ ^ McBride. 150 

The Chain of Roses. j 

Reformation H. B. Niles. 154 

Seeing a Ghost Julia A. Crouch. 158 

The Motto or Examplf Mrs. C. M. Peat. 162 

Choosing a Trade or Profession Geo. D. Hunt. 169 

Child- Philosophy H. A. Duncan. 174 

The Noblest Hero Alice Gray. 176 

Woman's Rights Emma Zeliff. 179 

The Orphan's Trust : H. G. Hunt. 186 

Mrs. Smith's Boarder E. E. McBride. 187 

La Teune Malade H. G. Hunt. 194 

Night and Morning Mrs. L. E. V. Boyd. 195 

Scandal on the Brain Blanche B. Beebe. 197 

The Common Bond H. C. Hunt. 203 

Phrenology D. L. Demorest. 204 

Correct Habits W. C. Munson. 207 

The Secret Gousin Fannie. 217 

The Two Friends America AtJceson. 219 

Killed with Kindness Sophie May. 221 

The Sisters H G. Hunt. 228 

Management ; or, the Folly | ^^^^j^^^. L. E. V. Boyd. 230 
OF Fashion. j 

Columbus at the Court of Spain Mrs. L. E. V. Boyd1^'69 

The Silver Dollar HE. McBride. 245 

Oil on the Brain S. A. McKeever. 248 

Going to be an Orator Kate E. Forbes. 252 



CONTENTS. 13 

Quackery J. W. Bonfield. 255 

Two Faults Alice A. Coale. 257 

Grumbling over Lessons Hattie Herlert. 260 

Behind the Scenes Mrs. M. L. Bayne. 264 

The Test H. E. McBride. 267 

Thanksgiving H. E. McBride. 272 

Matrimonial Advertisement Clara Augusta. 278 

Changing Servants Milotus J. Wine. 282 

The Eehearsal HE. McBride. 286 

Deaf Uncle Zed 29] 

Egyptian Debate Alf. Burnett 303 

Widow Muggins — Her Opinions J. W. Bonfield. 308 

Marrying for Money H. E. McBride. 313 

The Conflict Mary E. Topping. 318 

Life : — A School Scene E. H. Trafton. 323 

Ben the Orphan Boy H. E. McBride. 325 

Convict's Soliloquy ; or, the Night -i EH Trafton 330 
before Execution. j * 

John Jones' Fortune HE. McBride. 333 

In want of a Servant Clara Augusta. 337 

How THEY Kept a Secret Clara Augusta. 344 

Stealing Apples J. D. Vinton. 351 

Playing Fourth of July M. F. Burlingame. 354 

Good for Evil , Capt. Howard. 359 

Not so Easy Eliza Doolittle. 364 

What I Like Eliza Doolittle. 364 

Fred's First Speech Eliza Doolittle. 366 

I WANT to be a Soldier J. Ward Childs. 366 

Bll.. A. B. Batledge. 367 

Walter's First Speech Eliza Doolittle. 368 

Examination Day -. Eliza Doolittle. 369 

Close of School Anna Morgan. 370 



14 CONTENTS. 

Examination Day Eliza DooUttle. 371 

Charlie's Speech Eliza DooUttle. 371 

Four Year Old Eliza DooUttle. 372 

Willie's Speech Eliza DooUttle. 372 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES 



TRUE MANLINESS. 



CHAEACTEES. 

Mr. Howard, a wealthy gentleman, 

Mr. Wayne, teacher. 

Tom Jones, a blusterer. 

Caleb Nott, a toady. 

Charles Stephens, son of a poor widow, y Pupils. 

Harry Dare. 

Edward Burton. 



Act I. Scene 1. — The ScJiool Boom. 

Teacher. — Boys, I have something to tell you after 
school, or rather, you must be prepared to hear some- 
thing. I believe, however, that I had better not tell it. 

Boys. — Oh, please, teacher, do tell us. What is it ? 

Teacher. — No, I shall not tell you; but you shall 
hear it this afternoon, nevertheless. Now attend to your 
xgtudies. \^Goes on correcting exercises.^ 

Tom Jones [to Caleb']. — What a mum fellow our 
teacher is, to be sure ; isn't he ? 

Caleb. — Yes ; he might as well out with it now. 

Teacher. — Attend to your studies, boys. Are you 
talking ? 

Tom. — No, teacher, only Charlie Stephens, he makes 
such a noise with his lips. [^Charlie looks confused, but 
does not speak.] 

Teacher ^severely]. — Tom Jones, how often must I 
correct you in speaking? It is unnecessary to use 
the personal pronoun when you use the noun. A great 

15 



16 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

boy like you — almost a man — should be more careful. 
Charles Stephens, you must make less noise studying; 
you disturb me. 

Tom to [^Charlie]. — I'll be even with you for that lec- 
ture ; see if I don't. 

Caleb. — Hide his old cap after school. 

[Enter Mr. Howard. Mr. Wayne advances, and they 
shake hands. Boys rise.^ 

Mr. Howard. — I am pleased, Mr. Wayne, to see your 
school in such good order. Have you mentioned my 
proposition to j^our pupils ? 

Teacher. — I have not, sir ; but merely intimated to 
them that they would hear something. I preferred leav- 
ing it to yourself. Boys, you know who this gentleman 
is? 

Boys [all]. — Yes, sir ; Mr. Howard. 

Mr. H. — Thank you, young gentlemen ; I am glad 
you remember me. [Boys bow.'] Your respected 
teacher tells me that he has prepared you to hear some 
particular news. 

Boys. — Yes, sir. 

Mr. H. — Well, I shall now proceed to tell you what 
it is. I am, as 3^011 may be aware, a great friend to ed- 
ucation. [Boys bow.] Education, my young friends, 
is better than houses and lands — better than gold. But 
'inental education, without moral, is worse than useless. 
The boy who possesses one without the other, may be 
compared to a man who has eyes, yet is blind ; who has 
ears, yet can not hear. Do you understand me ? 

Boys. — Yes, sir. 

Mr. H. — Yery well. Now, that you may learn to 
appreciate the value of moral education, I have deter- 
mined to offer a gold eagle to that boy whose meritori- 
ous conduct best deserves a reward. 

Boys. — Oh, thank you, sir ; you are very kind. 

Mr. H. — Remember, boys, that you all can not get it ; 
but the trying for it will be an advantage in many ways. 
First, striving for this prize will beget in you a noble 
emulation. Secondly, you will, if you really desire to 
obtain it, practice many virtues — patience, self-denial, 
energy, etc. Thirdly, you will, in the pursuit of this 
pri^e, acquire a habit of perseverance, which alone will 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 17 

be worth many half eagles to you. Fourthly — I believe 
I have DO fourthly, except to say, that your term of pro- 
bation will expire in one month from to-day — when T 
shall have the pleasure of bestowing a reward on tlie 
most deserving, amid, I trust, the approving smiles of 
his noble-minded companions. Good afternoon, j^oung 
gentlemen ; good afternoon, Mr. Wayne. [^ExiL^ 

Boys [^all together']. — Who'll get ii, I wonder? I 
mean to try. 1 don't; 'twould be no use. Ten dollars 
in gold — I wish I had it — etc. 

Teacher. — Boys ; silence ! Is this rude clamor the 
beginning of your competition for a reward of merit ? 
Now act more like the gentlemen Mr. Howard calls you. 
As it wants but twenty minutes until the hour of dis- 
missal, I shall let you off now. But tell me, who intends 
to gain the prize ? Tom Jones, do you ? 

Tom. — No, sir ; I couldn't get it if I did try ; and, 
besides, old Howard is rich enough to have offered 
twenty dollars, and I call him stingy. 

Boys. — Oh, shame ! he had no need to give it at all. 

Teacher. — Thomas, I am astonished to hear you 
speak in such a disrespectful manner; but I hope you 
are not in earnest. Ned Burton, will you try ? 

Ned. — Yes, sir ; and I'll get it, too. 

Teacher. — Indeed ; how do you know ? 

Ned. — Wh}^, I never tried for any thing I didn't get. 

Tom. — You didn't get the book that master offered 
for that problem in algebra, and you tried for it. 

Ned {_aside]. — I'll get satisfaction out of you, though; 
see if I don't. 

Tom \_8neeringly']. — Well, maybe you'll get satisfac- 
tion ; but you wont get the ten dollars. 

Teacher. — Charlie Stephens, will you get it, too ? 

Charlie. — Oh! if I only could. 

Teacher. — Why, what would you do with it ? 

Tom [aside]. — Buy a little doll-bab3\ 

Teacher. — Answer, Charles ; what would you do ? 
\_Gliarles endeavors to speak, hut f alters, and turns 
away. Tom — behind teacher — places one arm 
across the other, pretending to dandle a baby ; 
sings softly, By-o-bahy ; buy a dolly with ten dol- 
lars. Boys laugh.] 



18 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher \^musingly']. — I can not understand Charles 
Stephens. 1 would fancy he had some trouble if he 
were not too young. It must be only silly bashfulness, 
and I must cure him of it. Boys, what are you laugh- 
ing at ? 

Caleb. — Why, sir, Charlie looks so funny when he's 
crying; just like a girl. 

Teacher Isternly^. — I do not see why a girl should 
look more funny than a boy. Charles, are you crying ? 

Charlie. — No, sir; I am not crying. 

Tom. — Only mighty near it. 

Teacher. — Tom, I insist on your being silent, or, at 
least, you must cease these personal remarks. Because 
you have sense enough to be neither bashful nor vain- 
glorious llooks at Charlie and Ned'], you should not 
tease those who are either. Now you can leave, boys ; 
and I wish you, each and all, to try for Mr. Howard's 
prize ; for if he be really pleased with you, his gener- 
osity will not be limited to this act ; but I must not tell 
any more. However, I hope you will all deserve it, 
though only one can get it. [^IJxeunt omnes.] 



Scene 2. Immediately after Scene 1. — Boys at Flay. 

Tom Jones. — I wonder now who will get that te» 
dollars. I call it a mean trick not to give twenty. The 
old miser could afford it just as easy, and then 'twould 
be worth having, though not worth trying for, I say. 

Caleb. — No, not worth trying for, I say, too ; but, 
Tom, you could get it, couldn't you ? Ten dollars arn't 
picked up in the street. 

Tom. — Why couldn't you get it, if you are so anxious 
for it ? 

Caleb. — Oh, Tom, 'twouldn't be any use for me to try. 
Old master doesn't think that much of me ; but you could 
wheedle it out of his own pocket, if 'twas only in, you're 
such a pet of his. 

Tom. — No I aint, though. 

Caleb. — Why, didn't you hear what he said to you 
when that cry-baby, Charlie, began to blubber ? 

Tom. — Oh, vou want to gammon me now. I'm not 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 19 

quite that green, though. Here comes Burton now I'll 
teach him to brag. 

Caleb. — Now don't, Tom ; master would be sure to 
hear of it. See what he says first. 

Ned. — I say, Tom, let's have a game of foot-ball. 

Tom \^aside\. — To be sure ! he''s trying for it in earnest 
\^Aloud.'] How about that satisfaction, Ned? 

Ned. — Oh, hang the satisfaction [_aside'] till I get the 
prize. 

Tom. — Well, I'll hang it, if you like. I see you're 
going in to win. 

Ned [^indifferently.'] — No ; I needn't try. There's so 
man}'' better fellows in the school than I am. Besides, 
my father's rich, and I can get ten dollars any time I 
want it. 

Tom. — You think you can ! 

Caleb [sidling up to Ned]. — Ned, I think you've about 
the smartest chance going. I'll tell master how you 
forgave Tom, after all his meanness, and 'twill stand in 
3^our favor. 

Ned. — Oh, go 'way. I don't want to have any thing 
to say to you. 

Caleb [bitterly]. — You don't, don't you ? Well, 
maybe you'll come down yet, Ned Burton, for all 3^ou 
hold yourself so high. [Goes off by himself.] 

Ned. — Where's that little girl, Charlie ? I guess heHl 
get it ; he never does any thing wrong ; oh, no, not 
he! 

Tom. — I say, now, that's too bad. If a cry-baby, 
girl-boy, like Charlie Stephens, gets it, I'll leave school. 

Several boys. — So will I. So will I. 

Harry D. — And why may not Charlie get it, as well 
as any one else, if he deserves it ; and he wont get it 
unless he does deserve it. 

Boys. — Oh, preacher I preacher I 

Tom. — Maybe youHl get it, you think ? 

Harry. — No, I'll not get it ; for I couldn't be the 
best; but I'm above joining in against a fellow that's 
not here to take his own part, and who is the best of us, 
anyway. 

Tom. — Come now, Harry Dare, I like that ; m^ybe, 
since you're so ready to talk for the " one that's the 



20 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

best amongst us," you'll be williug to fight for him, 
too. You'll not say he would do that for himself, I 
guess. 

Harry. — Yes, I'll fight for him as long as you please ; 
and I am a match for you, too, Tom Jones, big as you 
are. \_Puts himself in an attitude.^ 

Ned \_hastily2. — Oh, come now, boys, don't make fools 
of yourselves, fighting about a fellow^ who hasn't spirit 
enough to open his mouth. 

Tom. — Well, I do not care about fighting, particularly ; 
let's sbake hands, Hal \_aHide']; Ned's bound to win ; 
how disappointed he is that we don't fight. 1 hate a 
hypocrite. 

Caleb [approaching hastily']. — I say, boys ; oh, what 
I have to tell you I 

All.— What? what? 

Caleb. — Let me get breath — I shall die laughing. 
You know our girl ? 

Boys. — No ; we don't know your girl. What about 
aer ? 

Caleb. — You don't understand me. I mean the one 
ihat goes to our school — Charlie Stephens. 

All. — Yes, yes ; go on. 

Caletj. — Well, while you were talking, I saw him 
scuddin' across the field at a two-forty pace ; so, thinks 
I, I'll see what you^re up to. So I follows him a safe 
distance, or he'd a heard me. 

Harry D. — Mean spy ! 

Caleb. — So, on I sneaks after him, slowly, slowly, 
till he came to that little, rickety, tumble-down hole of 
a hut, at the edge of the woods. So in there my gen- 
tleman goes. You know, none of us never could find 
out where he put up. So, my fine boy goes in ; and I 
sees a hole of a window at one side, so up I goes, giving 
him time to get seated to his piano, as I supposed, from 
his high and mighty airs. In I peeps, and there — oh, 
my, 1 can't tell you [laughing immoderately']. 

Boys. — Come, telfus, Cale; go ahead with it. 

Caleb. — It's too good ; I can't tell you. 

Tom. — You'd bett'er, or I'll shake it out of you. 

Harry D. — I'd like to shake his mean soul out of him. 
Caleb. — Well, here goes. Oh, gracious 1 I peeped 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. * 21 

in at the window, and there was king Charlie, with — 
what do you think ? 

All.— What ? tell us what ? 

Caleb. — With — oh, my I with a great, big, blue check 
ivoman^s apron on. 

All. — Hurrah for Miss Charlie ; hurrah for the boy 
with a blue check woman's apron on. Gro on, go on, 
Cale. 

Caleb. — Yes; oh, I'll die with laughter. I most 
burst, trying to keep in tliere. 

Boys [iinpo.tienlhj']. — Well; what was he doing? 

Caleb. — I'm coming to it. What do 3-ou think? 
— washing the dishes ! 

Boys. — Hurrah for the dish-washer! 

One. — I'll tell my mother to hire him — she wants & 
gal. 

Another. — 111 hire him myself. I'm going to house- 
keepmg. 

Tom. — Xow, Harry, what do 3^ou say for your para- 
gon ? I believe that's the word ; aint it ? 

Harry \_aside; angrily']. — I did not think he was such 
a milksop. I'll let him go. \_Aloud']: why, perhaps, it 
wasn't him at all. 

Boys. — Oh, now, that wont go down ; you know it 
was ; but go on, Caleb — tell us the rest ; did he wash 
thera clean ? 

CALEB.-^It was the poorest kind of a place, I tell 
you. He was a standing at a little table, where he 
couldn't see me ; but I could see him. He was a wash- 
ing away, and I heard something else — a woman — talk- 
ing. Charlie was saying: " Motlier, don't you be tiring 
yourself washing little Alice ; when I'm done the pots, 
and pails, and kettles, I'll wash her, too; just you lean 
back in your chair and rest ;" and then the woman says : 
" No, Charlie, this doesn't tire me ; and you have your 
lessons to study, too, for you know I want you to keep 
your place." Now, wasn't that mean — just putting him 
up to keeping us out of our places ? 

Tom. — I say, boys, let's go, after school to-morrow, 
and see Charlie washin' dishes. Say, shall we? 

Boys. — Yes, yes; let's go. 



:22 * SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Harry. — I, for one, will not go. I'm no eavesdropper 
nor spy. 

Caleb. — Do you mean to say I am ? 
Harry. — Yes. 

\_Caleb slinks away. Approaches Tom, and in dumb 

show, asks him to fight Harry.'] 

Tom. — No, no ; fight your own battles. I've enough 

for me. Come, boys, let's go home, and dream we've 

nabbed old Howard, and each got a ten dollar gold 

piece, l^jceunt.] 

Ned. — I'll go along to keep them in order; 'twill go 
hard with me, but I will win this reward ; pshaw, this 
ten dollars, I mean. With it, I can reach the city at 
last, and then good-bye to being a good boy. ^Exit 
slowly.] 

End of first Act. 



Act II. Scene 1. — Charlie sitting on a log at the edge 
of the woods, in a desponding attitude. 

Charles. — No, I can not endure it any longer. I will 
leave school, though to do so, will be to give up all my 
bright dreams, all my cherished hopes ; for, poor boy 
though I am, I have dreams and hopes. Yes, I have 
dreamed of a time when I could support my dear mother 
and my little sister. \_Here Mr. Howard and Mr. Wayne 
approach, unperceived ; they see Charlie, and stop. 
Charlie continues.] When the education she has 
worked so hard to give me, might be made the medium 
and the evidence of my gratitude to her. I have hoped, 
but it is no use. For three weeks, my schoolmates have 
taunted and jeered me. Some way they have found out 
how I work, and every moment they can, they taunt me 
by sa,ying, " Polly, put the kettle on," or ask me if my 
dishcloth is clean, and the baby's face washed ? Oh ! 
if one of them had a sick mother, who still sewed day 
after day, and far into the night, how gladly 1 would 
help him with the w^ork he did to help her. 1 would not 
call him a girl-boy nor tantalize him ; but I must give 
it up. Mr. Ross will give me three dollars a week 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 23 

to mind his store, and I must take it. If I could only 
get that ten dollars, it would enable mother to take a 
rest, and then she would get well; but I need not think 
of it ; they are all against me, even Mr. Wayne. [^Bises, 
and exit slowly. Mr. Howard and Mr. Wayne look at 
each other.'] 

Mr. H.— Js that boy one of your pupils, Mr. Wayne ? 

Mr. W. — He is, and he seems in great trouble. 

Mr. H. — Yes, but it is such as can be easily remedied, 
I hope. What is it ? 

Mr. W. — Well, really, Mr. Howard, I am half ashamed 
to say that I do not know. Charles Stephens has 
always been so reserved that I could not understand 
him, and I dislike any thing like secretiveness above all. 
I can forgive what to others might seem graver faults, 
if accompanied by an upright spirit. There's Tom Jones, 
for example ; he is heedless, often displays a spirit of 
rebellion, but still, he is so candid 

Mr. H. [^interrupting']. — Excuse me, my dear sir, but 
I do not think that Tom Jones' candor, which may 
really be only a spirit of bravado, should extenuate the 
commission of the faults you mention. I happen to 
know something about him myself. As for this other 
boy, what faults do you find in him beside the reserve 
you so dislike ? 

Mr. W. — I must say I can not find any fault with him 
except on that score — he is quiet, obedient, and studious. 

Mr. H. [warmly]. — My dear sir, what more would you 
have ? We must not look for perfection in a school 
boy. I shall be satisfied with a very good one, for whose 
benefit I can expend a portion of my superfluous wealth. 
If I find such a one, I shall, as you know, aid him to 
prosecute his studies, enable him to enter college, give 
him a trade or profession, or the means of starting in 
business, as he may prefer, and if he prove worthy, be a 
friend to him for life. I am not an advocate for pos- 
thumous charities. The good I do now may be indefin- 
itel}^ multiplied if my boy, when he grows up, should 
do tlie same for another, and he for a third, and so on. 

Mr. W. — Yes, I see ; like Benjamin Franklin and his 
dollar, you would extend the sphere of your benevolence 
beyond j^our own time. 



24 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mr. H. — I don't call it benevolence. I have more 
money than I need, or shall ever nse, and I was once a 
poor strugoling boy myself, who would have given tea 
years of his life for this chance that I offer, of an edu- 
cation. 

Mr. W. — Well, Mr. Howard, I wish to assist you 
conscientiousl}'', therefore, I shall try and find out the 
secret of Charlie's reserve, and give him an equal chance 
with the rest, of profiting by your liberality. 

Mr. H. — Do not misunderstand me ; it is the most 
meritorious wdio is to gain the reward, both the present 
slight one, and the future more valuable one, whether 
it be Tom Jones or Charles Stephens. But I would 
like you to find out the cause of his trouble, £uid let me 
know. 

Mr. W. — I shall not fail to do^so. lExeunt.] 

Scene 2. — The school-room. Boys standing around 
teacher. 

Teacher. — Well, boys, the day after will be the day. 
Already I have seen the truth of Mr. Howard's assertion 
that though all can not gain the prize he has offered, yet 
all would be the better for trying. I think you have all 
been trying, for there is certainly the evidence of it in 
the increased subordination, and diligence of the greater 
number of 3- on, at least. 

Ned B. — Well, teacher, I don't care so much for the 
prize, for, as you know, my father is yery rich ; but I 
would like to please you and Mr. Howard, who is so 
kind. 

Harry D. — The hypocrite I 

Teacher. — What did you mutter, Harry Dare ? Don't 
hesitate so ; answer me. 

Ned. — Please, teacher, don't mind making him answer. 

Teacher. — Why not ? 

Ned. — I don't want him to be punished — or I .ion't 
mean that; but I do not care what is said of me, if I 
onl}^ have your approbation and that of my conscience. 

Harry. — Now 1 will speak ; I said 

Teacher. — Harry, be silent. Ned Burton, I should 
be sorry to think you did not merit the approval you 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 25 

speak of; but your words are almost too fair and good. 
Take care that 3'our actions correspond with them. 

Harry. — Master, I will spea,k, at the risk of your 
displeasure. I said Ned Burton was a hypocrite, and I 
maintain it. 

Teacher. — Can you prove what 3'ou assert ? 

]S'ed. — No, sir, he can't ; he's no witnesses. 

Harry [indignantly~\. — Witnesses ! my word is as 
good as yours. 

Teacher. — Well, say what you have to say. 

Harry. — Yesterday you blamed Charlie Stephens for 
not having written his Latin exercise, and when he 
said he had written it, but could not find it, you would 
scarcely believe it. 

Teacher. — Yes, I remember ; go on. \_Ned appears 
agitated, hut says nothing.^ 

Harry. — At noon, to-da}^, I wished to get something 
from my portfolio. Ned Burton has one exactl}^ like 
mine. I went to my desk, and to my surprise saw the 
portfolio 0^2, instead of inside the desk. I opened it, 
and the first paper I saw was Charlie Stvsphens' exer- 
cise. Surprised at this, I turned over another leaf, when 
I saw at once the portfolio was not mine. I looked for 
the name, and found it to be Edward Burton. He has 
known of the exercise being there, for I have seen him 
looking all through his portfolio since then. 

Teacher.^ — Edward, what have you to say to this 
charge ? 

Ned. — Nothing, sir, except that it is false. 

Harry. — Look in his portfolio. 

Ned. — Yes, as you did, sneaking Paul Pry! 

Harry. — I did not pry; your portfolio was on my 
desk, and I thought it was mine. 

Ned. — Oh! yes, that's easily said. 

Teacher. — Boys, cease this crimination and recrimina- 
tion. An inspection of the portfolio will settle the ques- 
tion. Tom, bring it to me. 

Ned. — No, sir, I deny your right to inspect my pos- 
sessions. He shall not get it. 

Teacher. — Shall not ! Do you sa}^ he shall not obey 
my commands ? 

Ned. — Yes, sir, I sa}^ he shall not touch my propertj" 



26 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher. — Tom, bring rue his portfolio. 

[^Ned makes an effort to get it, hut is held by seve- 
ral hoys. Then assumes a defiant expression.'] 

Tom. — Here, sir. 

^Teacher looks through the portfolio, and draws 
forth the lost exercise. Boys utter various sounds 
of astonishment and horror.] 

Teacher [^sternly]. — Edward Burton, I am shocked 
and pained beyond expression, to find that one of my 
boys — one, too, whom I trusted, and who but to-day 
made professions so greatly at variance with such con- 
duct — should be guilty of the great wrong of wilfully 
seeking to injure another, and adding to that wrong the 
grievous one of falsehood. You are dismissed from this 
school, and sorry I am to be compelled to say, that in your 
case there are no extenuating circumstances. In order to 
lessen the chance of another gaining an ofiered reward, 
you hesitate not to subject him to unjust censure, nor to 
expose him to the suspicion of falsehood. Charles, I re- 
gret my hasty action toward you ; as for you, Edward, 
you are no longer a pupil of mine, but if, after long re- 
flection on your wicked conduct 

Ned [interrupting]. — Oh, if you mean I'll want to 
come back, and beg pardon, and all that, you're very 
much mistaken, and as for your dismissal, why if I had 
only succeeded in getting old Howard's ten dollars, I 
intended to dismiss myself right oft*, for I am sick of 
this low school, where rowdies and dishwashers get all 
the favors. You wanted to find me out a villain, and 
now pretend to be sorry that 3^our scheme was suc- 
cessful. 

Teacher. — Take your books, and depart ; I will hear 
no more. 

[Ned collects hooks, etc., goes to the door, stops, and, 
with an ironical how, says :] 

Ned. — Good-b3^ sir; I wish you joy of your excellent 
scholars and your liberal friends. [Exit.] 

Scene 3. School Room. Mr. Howard and 3Ir. Wayne 
seated. 
Mr. H.— Well, sir, his mother, you say, appears to be 
delicate ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 27 

Teacher. — Yes, sir ; it is my honest opinion that one 
year more of her present existence would terminate it. 

Mr. H. — And she says that, but for this son, she 
could not manage to get along? 

Teacher. — Yes ; Charles has, when freed from his 
school duties, earned, on an average, from one to twc 
dollars a week by doing various little services for the 
farmers living about here, particularly, carrying mes- 
sages, an office in which he is invaluable ; they say, he 
never makes a mistake, never requires to be told twice, 
and is alwaj^s punctual and prompt. 

Mr. H. — 1 tliink more of his assisting his mother in 
her housework, for that shows a spirit which is above 
false pride, a quality I detest. So many boys are ruined 
by the pernicious idea that it is degrading to do aught 
that seems, to their perverted view, umoomanly. A 
want of manliness is degrading ; but few of the young 
understand that true manliness consists in doing our 
duty, whatever it may be, unmoved by the sneers of 
others. But, I say, Mr. Wayne, I am a pretty good 
judge of human nature, or boy nature, am I not? 

Mr. W. — I must say, you are, sir. Your penetration 
in this case was greater than mine. 

Mr. H. — Ah, ha ! I thought you would agree to that. 
Well, time is nearly up ; and now be sure to tell the 
boys every thing ; that is, tell them all about Charlie's 
devotion to his mother ; but do not, of course, say any 
thing of my intention to provide for his mother and 
sister until he is able to do so himself 

Mr. W. — I shall attend to it, sir. 

\_Enter boys. They bow to Mr. Howard and teacher, 
and stand in order.~\ 

Teacher. — Well, boys, this afternoon will decide 
which of you will obtain the reward offered for good 
conduct by your kind friend, Mr. Howard ; a reward, 
which, as 1 intimated, will not stop at the sum of money 
offered to-da3^ Take your seats. 

Mr. H. — No, young gentlemen, the one who is proved 
most worthy shall receive substantial and lasting evi- 
dence of my good-will. Your teacher tells me that you 
have, with one exception, appeared actuated by a desire 



28 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to improve. I trust this improvement will continue, and 
I shall feel a pride and pleasure in continuing- the warm 
friend to education, as manifested in this school, that I 
♦always have been. Mr. Wayne, will you proceed ? 

Teacher. — As Mr. Howard has said, I have been 
l)leased to see a decided improvement in many of you, 
and all of you have merited in different degrees. I have, 
however, already decided upon the one, who, judged by 
his actions in school and out of it, has best deserved 
the prize. ]^Sensation among the 6oi/.s'.] But, before 
announcing his name, I shall first tell you a little story. 
Not very far from your school house there is a little 
cottage, in which dwell a widow and her two children. 
These children, the elder of whom is a boy, she has sup- 
ported by the constant and untiring, though not alto- 
gether unaided labor of her hands. The aid she has 
had was given by her son, in the intervals of his school 
duties. But I should have said that this poor woman 
has contrived to keep her son constantly at school, 
hoping that the education he thus acquired would be the 
means of enabling him to support her when she could 
no longer provide for him. He assisted her in various 
ways, earning now and then a little money, but most of 
all in her housework. \_Boyii appear surprised.'] Yes, 
young gentlemen, though you may think it derogatory 
to the dignit}^ of a boy, it seems he did not. His mother, 
whose health was enfeebled by her efforts in behalf of 
her children, would have sunk long ago had not her 
tasks been lightened by Jier devoted assistant, who took 
upon himself the hardest, as well as the most menial, 
duties of the household. It is unnecessary for me to 
enumerate in detail all that he did. Although his school- 
mates had frequently ridiculed his sensitive and retiring 
disposition, they went no further, until, by some unfor- 
tunate, and, I fear, underhand means, they discovered 
his mode of spending the hours given by them to pla^'. 
From that moment there was no more peace for him. 
At e^^ry opportunity, he was saluted by such terms as 
dish-washer, baby-tender, and similar ones. This be- 
came at last so unendurable that he resolved to quit the 
school, and take a situation in a store. Against this 
dete^'mination his love of knowledge and his mother's 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 29 

wishes both contended, and in the end prevailed. That 
you may not under-estimate the heroism of his course — 
for heroism it certainly Avas — in thus continuing to en 
dure the taunts and jeers of his school-fellows, I shalL 
merely say, that his sensitiveness is so great that, on 
one occasion, being unjustly and harshly accused of a 
fault, he was unable to defend himself, and only chance 
revealed the truth. This boy, whose true manliness ena- 
bled him to endure contempt and ridicule, rather than 
swerve from the path of duty, is, I need scarcely add, 
one of your own companions; and to him is adjudged 
the prise, with, I hope, your approval. 

Boys. — Yes, indeed, sir ; he deserves it. We didn't 
know his mother was sick, etc. 

Mr. H.^ — Yes, young gentlemen, you truly say he de- 
serves it ; and I am glad to know, by the heartiness of 
your replies, that you speak as you think. Charles 
Stephens, by the decision of your teacher, and the 
approval of your school-mates, you are entitled to the 
prize. And while I commend your example in the past 
to them, I trust that neither you nor they will ever be 
led away from the right by ridicule, and neuer consider 
any service that is done for a mother as detracting in 
the slightest degree from your character for True Man- 
LiJtfEss. IGurtain falls.'] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



THE TOBACCO PLEDGE. 



CHAEACTERS. 

John Lossinq. 

Albert Miller. 

Mr. Wise, their Teacher. 



Albert. — Good morning, John. Where is your craft 
bound for so early ? 

John. — Good morning. As you are trying to talk 
sailor style, I will try, too. My craft is steering, all 
sails set, for school. A delightful harbor, where all such 
vessels as ours may anchor in safety from the storms of 
temptation, sure to assail those who remain out at sea. 

A. — Well done. That's first rate. But come with me 
to the grocery, and then I will go with 3'Ou to school. 

J. — Why, what do you want there ? 

A. — I coaxed five cents from father, last night, and I 
am going to have some cigars. 

J. — You have never smoked any, and they will make 
you sick. I would rather uot go. 

A. — Oh, come along, and I will give you one. We 
will have some fun, I'll warrant. 

J. — I thank you. I never use tobacco, for a number 
of reasons. One is, " It is a wicked waste of money." 
Just think : if you begin now, at eleven years, and spend 
five cents a day until you are tAventy-one years old, to 
what it will amount. What a number of good books 
and papers it would get ! $182.50 ; count for yourself. 

A. — But every boy, who is any thing of a man, smokes, 
and I am as much of a man as any of them. Why, all 
use it when they get big, and you will, too. It is just 
because j^our mother will not let you. 

J. — No, that is not the reason. But my mother has 
shown me that it is a sin, and a poison that will destroy 
my health. And I promised her I would " Touch not, 
taste not, handle not the unclean thing." 

A. — My father uses it, and so does our minister, and 
nearly every body I know. And they would not use it 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOG L^ES. 31 

if they thought it was a sin. Wh}^ ministers preach 
against every thihg that is wrong, and I have seen them 
chewino^ in church. Now, what can you sav to that ? 

J. — They do not view the subject in the right light, or 
they would not do so. Mother says, the Bible forbids 
" Using our money for that which is not meat, or our 
substance for that which satisfieth not." Now if it is a 
poison, it is not meat ; it will not sustain life There- 
fore, it is wrong. 

A. — Yes, 3'es ; that may all be if it is a poison ; but 
how are you going to prove that ? It has been raised 
for hundreds of years, and I have never seen or heard 
tell of a case of poisoning from tobacco. 

J. — It can be proved, both by chemistry and ph3^siol- 
og3% that it is a poison. And if no one uses enough at 
one time to kill him, 3'et the continued use will debilitate 
the body, and bring on diseases which do end in death. 

A. — I do not know any thing about chemistr3' ; but I 
would like to know a part of what 3'Ou seem to know 
so well. 

J. — An3^ reliable work on chemistr3^ will tell you that by 
anal3'sis a property has been discovered, called nicotine. 
This is so poisonous that one drop placed on the tongue 
of a cat will kill it in five minutes. Chemistry sa3^s, 
that the effect of tobacco, in small quantities, on the 
human frame is of a very pleasing character for a time : 
the nerves are quietly lulled into a ver3^ comfortable 
feeling, and may for the moment endure more than they 
can unstimulated. But after the undue stimulus is over, 
they are weaker than before ; and thus begins the slow 
but sure undermining of life. 

A. — " Wh3', how 3^ou talk !" It all sounds very good ; 
but I intend to ask some one else. I shall not take your 
word for it. 

J. — I do not want you to take my word for it. But 
just reflect how many persons we see who are pale, and 
nervous, by smoking ; complaining of headache, d3'spep- 
bia, weak stomach, etc. All this is caused b3^ imposing 
upon the stomach with the use of tobacco. 

A. — You sa3^ it makes headache ; I say it cares tooth- 
ache. I have seen it done more than once. 

J. — Yes ; it cures the toothache on the same principle 



32 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

any otlier narcotic would. But here comes Mr. Wise, 
on his way to school, and we can walk along, and ask 
hiin about what 1 have said. He understands chemistry 
and physiolog3\ 

A. — Ha ! ha ! ha I That will not do you any good. 
Choose some one else. 

J. — What is the matter ? Why will he do me no good ? 

A. — See, he is smoking now. Do you expect him to 
take his cigar from his mouth, and say : '* Yes, I am 
poisoning myself. I am using my money for that which 
is not meat. I am sinning T' Hal ha! that is too 
funny. 

J. — No ; I do not want him to answer so ; neither do 
I intend to ask the questions. You must do that. It 
would sound like impertinence from me, while you can 
do it with perfect propriety. 

IMr. Wise approaches, smoking. They meet.'] 

A. & J. — Good morning. 

Mr. W. — Good morning, boys ; I am glad to see you 
out so early. You were very bus}^ talking when we met ; 
may I know what it was about ? 

J. — Yes, sir ; and we w^ant you to decide which of us 
is right. 

Mr. W. — Well, what is it? I will decide justly, to 
tVie best of my knowledge. 

A. — I wanted John to go with me to get some cigars, 
and he tried to make me believe that it was wrong, and 
that any person who knew any thing about chemistry 
would acknowledge there was poison in tobacco. 

Mr. W. — What else did he say, that you want my 
opinion concerning ? 

A, — Oh, much more. He said the Bible forbade us to 
use our mone^^ for that which is not meat, etc. He said, 
if tobacco would kill, it was not meat, and that it was 
wicked to waste our money so. 

Mr. W. — It is true, it is wrong to spend our money 
needlessly. But how does he prove the rest ? 

A. — Let him tell it as he told it to me. 

J. — The chemical analysis of tobacco has discovered 
u poison called nicotine so active that one drop })laced on 
the tongue of a cat will produce death in five minutes. 

A. — is that true ? Is that true, Mr. Wise 1 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 33 

Mr. W. — His authority is very good. I believe that 
statement is correct. But, John, you do not know of 
any person being killed by tobacco, do you ? 

J. — I do not, sir. But a great many weak and sick 
persons complaining of headache, dyspepsia (and I 
know not what else), are made such by debilitating the 
stomach with tobacco. 

Mr. W. — You said before tobacco was stimulating; 
how then can it debilitate ? 

J. — The very fact that it stimulates at one time is 
proof of debility afterward. And you know, sir, these 
secretions of the glands of the mouth are absolutely iie- 
cessary to assist the stomach in its office of digestion. 
When the saliva has become saturated with tobacco no 
one swallows it, but expels it ; thus the stomach is de- 
prived of this help, and becomes diseased or overworked. 

A. — Well, it's not wrong for old folks to smoke. It 
is such a comfort when they get so old and blind they 
can not read to enjoy themselves. 

J. — They are then only suffering from its use when 
young. Perhaps if they had never injured their eyes 
with the use of tobacco, their sight might not have failed 
so seriously. It has a powerful effect upon the eyes. 
If you were to smoke a cigar now it could be told on the 
eyes as easily as any other way. 

A. — Why, I never heard any person talk so about to- 
bacco in all my life. I have heard them scold about it 
being dirty and hateful, and all such. But is this true, 
Mr. Wise ? If it is, I will never use it. 

Mr. W. — John, you reason like a scholar. Although 
I use tobacco, I dare not dispute you. You have reli- 
gion and science on your side. But who taught you 
this ? You are too young to have learned yourself. 

J. — My mother taught me, sir ; and I promised her 1 
Would " Touch not, taste not, handle not th^ unclean 
thing." 

]\Ir. W. [throwing away his cigar']. — You are right, my 
noble boy. I have thrown away my cigar, and will sign 
your pledge of *' total abstinence." I have reasoned and 
smoked against my own convictions long enough. You 
have a worthy mother ; I wish there were more such. 

J. — I signed no pledge, sir ; but gave my word, 
3 



34 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

which I intend to keep as faithfully as if written on the 
Bible. 

A. — Can't we get up a pledge ? I want to sign, and 
get others to do so, too. 

Mr. W. — You draw one up and see what success yoi* 
will have. Your cause is a good one. 

A. — I would, sir, if I could, but I can not compose it 
right. 

Mr. W. — John will help you. Here is a pencil and 
paper — now go to work. 

^After a short whispering, they approach with tht 
following .•] 

A.— Will this do, sir? .\_Reads.'] 

Whereas our school-mate, John Lossing, has proved 
to us that the use of tobacco is both morally and physi- 
cally wrong, therefore, we, the undersigned. 

Resolve, 1st, We will '* Touch not, taste not, handle 
not," tobacco in any shape or form. 

Resolve, 2d, We will do all we can to persuade others 
of our friends to join us. 

Resolve, 3d, If we live to become men, and are in- 
trusted with the office of hiring teachers for j^outh, or 
ministers of the gospel, we will patronize none who use, 
or advocate the use of tobacco. 

Mr. W. — That will do very well ; but we will adjourn 
now. It is school time. 



THE NEW MUFF AND COLLAR. 

CHARACTERS : 

Mr. Stubbs, an honest country farmer. 
Mrs. Stubbs, a great lover of dress. 
Mr. Urqem, a city merchant. 

Scene 1. — A store in Boston. 

Mrs. Stubbs. — My dear, you would have forgotten to 
purchase me a muff, had I not mentioned it to you, and 
this gentleman says he has some very cheap, and made 
upon honor. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 35 

Mr. Stubbs. — A muff! in}" dear, you must be too well 
acquainted with the shortness of my purse, to make such 
a demand. I have already expended so much bj' pur- 
chasing one nick-nack and another, that I fear we shall 
')e short home. 

Mrs. S. — But, dear, what will people say if I return 
without one ? It will make a town talk. [ Turning to 
the merchant.'] You say that you can afford them on 
reasonable terms ? 

Mr. TJ. — Cheaper and better than you can find thera 
in any other place in town. Just look at them. \_Opens 
a box on the table or counter, and displays some.'] 

Mrs. S. — Well, I guess my husband wont object to my 
taking one, if they are good and cheap, as 3'ou saj", for 
he is commonly pretty good natured. ^Turning to her 
husband.] Oh, my dear, only see what beauties they 
are ! These are nice. My dear, you canH object to my 
having one, the}' are so nice. 

Mr. S. [in a low tone]. — I suppose they are ver}^ ex- 
pensive, and why do 3'ou urge me to purchase one, when 
I have not half the money at command ? 

Mrs. S. — Oh, Mr. Urgem is some acquainted with you, 
and he seems to be very kind. I dare sa}^ he will trust 
you. [To the merchant.] How much are your muffs 
and collars ? 

Mr. TJ. — Only seventy dollars, ma'am, and they are 
very fine for that money. 

Mr. S. — Seventy dollars! the Lord forgive such ex- 
travagance as that would be, in us poor folks ! My 
dear, if the muffs are worth that money, let us leave 
town, for I tell you at once, I can not purchase one 
without robbing our famil}^ of necessaries. 

Mrs. S. — Oh, stay one minute. I dare say the gen- 
tleman will take off some from the price. Don't be 
scared at trifles. 

Mr. U. — If I do, madam, it will be onty that you 
might have one. Wont you take a muff without a collar, 
/■hat will come very low? We sell them at only twenty- 
five dollars. What do you say, sir? [Turning to Mr. 
S.] Come, 3'our lady wishes for one very much, and it 
will be a great addition to her appearance, 

Mr. S. — Whv, I say, sir, that I am unable to get so 



36 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

much money b}^ any honest means, and as for turning 
rogue to purchase my wife a muff, I shall not do it. 

Mrs. S. — Why ! now, I think you very unkind. What 
is the lowest figure you will take ? 

Mr. U. — Why — really, ah — rather than you should 
not have one, j^ou may take it at twenty-three dollars. 

Mrs. S. — There, now, see how kind he is, and he'll 
trust 3^ou, too. I dare say, he's seen your face in Bos- 
ton before now — have you not, sir ? 

Mr. U. — Oh, yes, madam ; I have seen him before, I 
assure j^ou. 

Mrs. S. — Come, now, I don't see as you can make one 
objection, only think now, only twenty-three dollar h, and 
you'll make that in some fortunate bargain. Come, my 
dear, there isn't such a nice muff in Bogtown. 

[Jfr. S., silent, turns his back towards Mrs. S., and 
walks slowly across the floor. ~\ 

Mr. U. — And you must have a collar, madam ; it will 
be quite unfashionable not to have one with such a nice 
muff, and they are very warm and comfortable, I assure 
you. 

Mrs. S. [to her husband']. — Yes, m^^ dear, I had about 
as lief have no muff as to be without a collar ; it will 
look so unfashionable. 

Mr. U. — Come, sir, I will put them both at sixty-five 
dollars, and that is absolutely ten dollars less than I can 
really afford them. 

Mrs. S. {_to her husband']. — Come, I see that you 
almost give consent; and will you not take pride 
now in seeing me look so much nicer than Mrs. Prink, 
whose furs were called so nice ? 

Mr. U. — Come, do you give your consent that your 
lady may take one? 

»Mr. S. — All the consent I shall give, will be not to 
quarrel with my wife in jntblic. 

Mr, U. — Well, sir, as your lady seems to be deter- 
mined to have one, I think that is about equal to consent. 

Mrs. S. [looking at two or three muffs and collars'].-'-^ 
I think I will take this muff and collar. My husband 
will settle with you. 

Mr. U. — Please give me your name, sir? 

Me. S. — John Stubbs, from Bogtown. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 37 

Mr. U. [^atiffly^. — Ninety days is the longest I give 
credit. 

Mr. S. — Aye, ninety days, I shall not forget it, sir, I 
assure 3'0ii. [_Exit Mr. and Mrs. Stuhhs.'] 

Mr. IJ. \_alone'\. — Was not that a fortunate sale to-day. 
Well, I am lucky for once, and I have realized twenty 
dollars now. \_Scene closed.'] 

Scene 2. At home. 

Mrs. S. — Come, my dear, will you not go to Mrs. 
Tibbs with me this evening ? 

Mr. S. — I thought you didn't care to keep up her ac- 
quaintance ; strange — though I forgot 3^ou have never 
been there since our trip to Boston. 

Mrs. S. — Well, it is so pleasant out, if it is cold ; but 
mj' furs will keep me so comfortable. 

Mr. S. — Well, I never saw such a comfortable article, 
for I observe that whatever the weather is, the furs ap- 
pear. They seem to have some good qualities, for I 
observe you have never been absent from church since 
you had them ; and not only have you been a constant 
attendant, but you have urged others to go. In short, 
you take vast comfort from them. 

Mrs. S. — Of course, I take solid comfort in w^earing 
them, or I would not have got them ; but you hard- 
hearted, close-fisted men are afraid we shall have any 
thing decent to wear. If you would only take a little 
interest in ladies' dresses, as some of the people do, how 
much pleasanter it would be. 

Mr. S. — If some ladies would only take a little inter- 
est in their husbands' pecuniary affairs, it would be so 
much better for us. That reminds me that this day 1 
received a bill from Mr. TJrgem, saying that a prompt 
remittance of sixty-five dollars will prevent a presenta- 
tion of the bill and lawyer's fees, and save much trouble. 

Mrs. S. — The unfeeling wretch ! Can he doubt your 
honesty ? And am I the cause of so much trouble ? 

Mr. S. — But, listen. The great trouble with you is, 
that a whisper in your ear, " There isn't such a nice set 
of furs in all the town," takes away your better judgment, 
and just for that sentence I must part with two of my 
best cows to settle that small bill. \_Exit Mrs. 5.] 



38 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mr. S. [.soliloquizes^. — "Misfortunes cluster," and 
they follow me so closely that were I of that turn of 
mind, I should give up in despair; but my wife needs a 
lesson, for she, like many others, just for the sake of 
having the nicest muff, the costliest gown, the finest 
bonnet, and the best outside appearance of any in town, 
would perplex her husband with debts a lifetime. 1 
say this, not that I am austere against the decent fash- 
ions, for once I could indulge my wife in most of her 
wishes. Yes ; many I suppose are suffering as I am, 
and will the ladies ever learn that lesson, not found in 
schools nor school books, other than that of experience, 
that Christian happiness would feel no mortification at 
having a finer muff, a finer hat, or a finer dress standing 
by their own ? If their husband's purse require it, they 
would gain more love and esteem in having their hands 
muffled up in the skins of their old cats, than in all the 
furs of the Russian empire. And if experience does not 
teach them the same lesson, I give them lief to call me 
old Pinchpenny to the end of my existence, which, above 
all other names, I should dislike, if there is one name I 
dislike more than another. 



» «' ^ '« » 



CHOOSE YOUR WORDS. 

CHARACTERS. 

Grandmamma Champney. 

Bp:linda, her granddaughter and namesake. 

Lucy, BeHnda's twin sister. 

Nattie and baby, younger Champneys. 

Mhs. Champney. 

Nurse White, a h'English woman. 

/ 

ScEXE I. — Nursery. Nurse White, rocking baby to sleep. 
Lucy reading. NaMie building a block-house on the 
floor. Enter Belinda hurriedly, her dress knocking 
down Nattie^ s house. He screams with anger. 

]5elinda. — Now, nursey, wont you just sew this ruffle 
in my dress, and tie on my sash ? Mamma has sent for 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 39 

me, and it's the dinner party for grandmamma to-day, 
you know. Lucy [throwing her a pair of gloves]^, 
you might mend these ; I am so late. It's time I was 
down stairs, now. 

Lucy. — Why didn't you get ready before ? 

Belinda. — In the first place, it took me an age to find 
my things, and then, of course, nothing was ready to 
put on, and — do put down that young one, nurse, and 
come and help me, or I never shall get dressed. 

Nurse [putting down baby, who sets up a deafening 
roar']. — Well, Miss B'lindy, though one says it as p'r'aps 
shouldn't, if you'd h'only be a bit more tidy h'about your 
h'articles h'of h'apparel, you might ha' been dressed in 
proper time, and not 'ave set the 'ouse h'in a h'uproar. 

Belinda. — There now, don't stop to talk. Besides, 
I'm going to turn over a new leaf, for I shall live at the 
hall most of the time now, since Grandmamma Champ- 
ney has come there for good. She told mamma that it 
would renew her own youth to have me there, and 
mamma cautioned me to be very particular and mind 
my manners, as grandmamma belongs to the old school, 
and is very orthodox in her notions. 

Lucy. — Do be careful, then, what you sa}^ 

Belinda. — Fudge I Dont you suppose I know beef 
from a broomstick ? Oh dear me ! such nice times as I 
shall have. Only think, Lucy, I shall ride in a coach 
and four, and the coachman wears a powdered wig, and 
mamma says her footman is seven feet high ! Then she 
will take me to town, and I shall be presented at coui't 
sometime, and all because I happened to be named after 
her. How lucky it was for me that they did'nt call you 
Belinda. My apple cart would have been upset, then. 
Now, Lucy, ain't you sorry ? 

[^Lucy shakes her head smilingly, and keeps m sing" 
ing to Nattie-s and baby^s edification:] 

What ! lost your mitties, 
You naughty kitties. 
Then you shall have no pie. 
Mew, mew, mew, mew, mew ! 

Belinda. — How silly I Say, Lucy, now really, ain't 
you scvry your name isn't Belinda ? 



40 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Lucy. — I don't know. If it had been, what would you 
have done ? I guess it's all right. You care more for 
siich things than I do. 

Nurse [hooking up Belinda, and nodding her head 
at Lucy']. — Little saint ! 'Ow I wish it were you with 
h'all my 'eart, so I do. H'its h'always B'lindy, B'lindy, 
h'all h'over the 'ouse ; h'especiaily h'its so with her 
mother ; but h'lve a h'idea Miss Lucy'll 'ave the werry 
'ighest place h'in 'aeven h'at h'all h'odds. 

Belinda. — What a slow coach you are, Nurse 1 and 
what's that long string you're mumbling behind my 
back ? 

Nurse [irately']. — Slow coach, h'am h'l ! When such, 
too, as shouldn't be a doin' of it, either, are a slavin' 
theirselves to death a helpin' of you, and then to be 
h'insulted h'in this 'ere h'outrageous and h'imperent 
'ighfalutinum. I must say, as 'ow h'l — h'l — [with a 
great effort] — I — 

Belinda [laughing]. — All in your eye I Can't you 
see it in that light ? 

Lucy. — Now, Belinda, how unkind that is ! 

Belinda [with sudden contrition]. — Nursey, you will 
forgive me this time, wont you ? You kilow I didn't 
mean any thing. 

Nurse [relenting]. — There I I will say, though it's 
so as perhaps I shouldn't, as 'ow you do 'ave the win- 
ningest ways for a fact. But your tongue may bring 
you to sorrow, for h'all that. 

Belinda [shrugging her shoulders]. — Now what's the 
use of putting it on so thick ? 

Lucy. — Don't talk so, 'Lindy. Supposing you should 
say that before Grandmamma Champney. 

Belinda. — Say what ? Putting it on so thick ? You 
goosey gander, I should be a donkey. What should I 
want to say that for ? 

Lucy. — I don't mean just those very words. But 
you do talk so much slang, you know. Now what if 
you should forget and say such things down-staira. 
What would be thought of 3^ou ? 

Belinda. — Good little sister Prim, henceforward my 
words shall travel by special express train, each one 
labelled " this side up with care." Will that suit ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 41 

[going out"]. Never you fear, but I'll do up business with 
grandmamma in smashing style. 

Scene 2. — Drawing-rooms. Ladies and gentlemen stand- 
ing and sitting in groups, drinking coffee and chatting. 
Belinda appears in the doorway. 

Gentleman [^stepping up to her']. — Fair, shining spirit, 
whence comest thou? Hast thou strayed from some 
enchanted realm to bewitch us bewildered mortals here 
below ? 

Belinda [bridling']. — I am Belinda Champney, sir. 

Gentleman [di^awing her foi'ward]. — Ladies and 
gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your most favor- 
able notice the queen of all the fairies, Miss Belinda 
Champney. \_All the ladies kiss her.] 

Grandmamma Champney [who sits a little ways hack]. 
— So that is Belinda. She looked like the Champneys 
when she was a baby. I see she has all their high-bred 
beauty. She will be a treasure indeed. 

Lady No. 1. — What a little beauty I 

Lady No. 2. — What lovely hair ! 

Lady No. 3. — Such a sweet expression in her eyes! 

Gentleman. — ^Yisions of rose-leaves and alabaster 
drifting in clouds of serophane will haunt my dreams 
for evermore. Say, cruel elf, may I get you some coffee, 
or do they feed you only on dew-drops and nectar ? 

Belinda \_quite carried away]. — Not by a long chalk I 

Gentleman. — I must believe what you tell me, I 
suppose. 

Belinda. — We had roast beef to-day and a jolly York- 
shire pudding. 

Gentleman. — So, so. True English di^. I shouldn't 
wonder then, if you played with dolls sometimes, like 
other earthly maidens. 

Belinda [disdainfully]. — Indeed, sir, I am much too 
old to play with dolls. Our governess. Miss McNabou, 
calls me a young ladj^ 

Gentleman. — And so we study a-b abs, c-b ebs, do 
we ? and are very fond of Miss — Whats-her-name ? 

Belinda. — Snap-dragon, I call her, for she's a muff, 
and crosser than two sticks. 



42 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Gentleman. — How hard a lot is yours 1 You bear 
your ills most wonderfully well. 

Belinda. — I guess I don't study all the time, though. 
Papa gave me a pony last Christmas, and I take a ride 
every day on him. He can trot 2.40, I'll bet. 

Gentleman No. 2. — What a perfect little Di Yernon 
it is, to be sure I What may this flying steed's name be ? 

Belinda. — His name's Garibaldi, and he's a regular 
trump. 

Gentleman No. 2. — Because he appropriates all the 
tricks, hey? 

Belinda. — He doesn't have any tricks. 

Gentleman. — You are too sharp for me. You must 
be in the habit of taking blades to lunch. 

Belinda. — Nurse always tells us to be careful of the 
blades. 

Gentleman No. 3. — Oh, oh ! now yon are cutting. 

Gentleman No. 4. — An original, en Veritas. Mamma 
certainly owns no more such prodigies ? 

Belinda. — There's Lucj^, she's my twin sister, but 
she isn't like me. Mercy, she's meeker than Moses, 
and not up to snuff, b}^ any means. 

Gentleman No. 4. — Oh I She would only do on a 
pinch, then. 

Belinda. — Then there's Nattie. But he's one of the 
small fry, and alwaj^s in a pickle. 

Gentleman. — Let us hope he will be preserved to a 
green old age. 

Belinda. — And there's the baby. He doesn't do any 
thing but scream like a house a-fire. 

Gentleman No. 4. — He must have a tongue like a 
roaring flame. 

Gentleman ^o. 1. — Little Nimrod, do you know that 
I am going to carry you over to my place, bag and 
baggage, and keep you ever so long. 

Belinda. — I'd like to come, but I'm going somewhere 
else. 

Gentleman. — But I know you'll have a better time 
at my house. The gold fish talk, and the birds stand 
still, and wait for you to put salt on their tails. 

Belinda. — Pooh ! that's gammon. 

Gentleman. — Come, and see if it is. You are never 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 43 

sure of any thing till you've tried it. Then I have a 
very nice coachman that will drive you everywhere. 

Belinda. — Grandmamma Champney's coachman 
drives a four inhand, and I'm going there. 

Gentleman. — Are there no terms you will listen to? 

Belinda. — ^^o. I know which side my bread is but- 
tered, I guess ; and I shall go to grandmamma's. 

Gentleman. — You are incorrigible, I see. I shall 
have to shake hands and leave you. Good-by, then. 
[^Exit ladies and gentlemen.'] 

Mrs. Champney [hurrying up to Belinda']. — Oh, here 
you are. I've been looking for you. Your grandmam- 
ma wants to take you home with her, now, right away. 

Belinda. — Oh goody ! 

Mrs. Champney. — Now, don't be hoydenish ; be lady- 
like and reserved, for she is very precise. Come, she is 
looking this way [leads her up to Grandmamma Champ- 
ney]. This is Belinda, madam. I trust you will find 
her to be all you expected. 

Grandmamma [sittiny very straight and speaking 
stiffly]. — That is settled beyond a doubt. 

Mrs. CHAMPNEY.-^She is said to greatly resemble 
the Champneys. 

Grandmamma [putting on her spectacles and taking a 
scrutinizing look]. — Yes, yes, I see a Champney nose 
and mouth, Champney eyes, the true bronze tint in the 
hair, the proper carriage to the head ; all that ! But 
the mind — the inward features ; think you they could 
stand the Champney test? 

Mrs. Champney [nervously]. — Why, yes, I — I think 
so. 

Grandmamma. — Belinda, when you came into the 
room — and I have watched you from the moment 
you entered — my heart warmed toward you, for you 
looked a true descendant of our race. The " handsome 
Champneys" has alwa3^s been a name well applied to 
us ; but handsome is as handsome does, too, in my eyes ; 
and if the graces of the mind correspond not to those 
of the bod}^, of what avail is beauty that is only skin 
deep ? [To 3Irs. Champney.] And now I will trouble 
you to send for Luc3^ I have nothing further to do 
with Belinda. [Belinda hides her face in her hands."] 



4A SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. Champney. — But — why — I thought it was Be- 
linda you wanted. She is your namesake. I hope she 
has not offended you. 

Grandmamma. — She is entirely out of the question, 
after my being an involuntary listener to her conversa' 
tion a few moments ago. I might excuse such language 
in a stable boy ; in a Champney, never. 

Mrs. Champney. — Can you not forgive her childish 
folly for this once ? I am sure she will not offend again. 
[_Lucy enters.'] 

Grandmamma. — Lucy, come to me. I can tell by 
your blushes that you are as modest as the wee wood- 
land flower, whose color deepens in your eyes ; and if 
mamma will spare you to me and the old hall, we may 
soon look to be warmed into life and light by the sun- 
shine of your presence. 

Mrs. Champney. — But, madam — 

Grandmamma Champney. — Saj^ no more, but allow 
me to choose Lucy for my protege and companion, for 
I feel sure she is worthy of all love and trust. I never 
should feel safe with one, who knows '' which side hex 
bread is buttered," who '' snap-dragons" the governess, 
and goes "2.40" on a "trump" of a pony. I much 
prefer Lucy, even though she is "meeker than Moses," 
and indeed this I consider a great recommendation — 
" that she's not up to snuff," by any means. 



THE EFFECTS OF WAR. 
CHARACTERS. 

HAnry, a comrade. 
Mother, engaged in sewing. 



Mother. 

Son. 

Blanche. 



Scene I. — Enter son dressed in uniform, the mother 
looks up in surprise. 

Mother. — My son, what does this mean ? 

Son. — It means, mother, that your son comes to you 
this morning, a soldiei". Our country, my country, is in 



SCHOOLDAY UlALOGUES. 45 

danger ! For three long 3'ears this blood}- war has been 
upon us, and now there is another call for men. My 
country calls her sons to her aid ; can I refuse ? She 
calls them to rescue her from the grasp of the demon 
who has her alread}- b}' the throat; can I hesitate ? Can 
I stand calmh' by and hear her cries, and not raise an 
arm in her defence ? Xo, never ! 

M. — M}' son, I fear you do not realize what you do ; 
you are not fit for a soldier ; you can not endure the 
fatigue of the march, and the exposure and privations 
of the camp ; 3'our constitution will soon be broken 
down, and you will sink into a premature grave, 

Sox. — Mother, would 3'ou withhold your offering from 
the altar of your country ? Think of the Spartan mother 
who could send away her son to fight for his country, 
saying, as she gave him his shield, '* Return to me with 
this shield or upon it," — and would you be less patriotic? 
No, mother; this stronsj risfht arm shall never be with- 
held, when my countr}^ calls for me to raise it in 
her defence. I should despise m^'self for ever were 
I to falter because there is personal danger to be 
encountered. 

M. — But think, my son, 3'Ou are leaving home and 
friends ; friends whose fondest hopes are centered in 
you, and who have endeavored to make your home a 
place of sunshine and joy to 3-ou ; you are leaving them 
for the battle-field, there perhaps to throw your life 
away [wiping a tt^ai-']. 

S. — Xo, mother ; "twill not be thrown Away ; rather 
given in defence of freedom, and for you and future 
generations. Seek not to hinder me; my decision is 
made ; my name is on the roll, and I have no desire to 
withdraw it ; much as I love friends and home, with all 
its hallowed associations, this sacrifice is not too great 
to make for my country. 

M. — Well, go, my sou, and God be with you, and keep 
you amid the dangers and temptations of a soldier's life, 
■ind hasten the time when you shall return in safet}- to 
your home. 

S. — Amen! and now g*ood-by. [TJiei/ embrace* each 
fther, the mother iceeping. Exit son. Curtain falls.'} 



46 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Scene 2. — Charles and Blanche are seated togeiherf 
her hand clasped in his. 

Charles. — Dearest Blanche, I must leave yoii, «and 
I know 3^ou will not urge me to stay when my country 
calls me. 

Blanche. — No, Charles ; I will not ask 3'ou to stay> 
hard as it is to part. I feel that I would be doing you 
injustice, as well as disgracing myself. It is our lot 
to part, and we must submit to it without murmuring. 

C. — But ere we part, accept this trifle \_producing a 
ring and placing it on her finger'], as a token of my 
love, with the request that it will remind you of the 
absent one. 

B. — And allow me this privilege also [taking from 
her own hand a 7'ing and placing it on his], with the re- 
quest that you will wear it for my sake. 

C. — Your request shall be granted ; its sight shall 
ever call to mind the happy hours spent here ; I will 
part with it but with life, and on the field of battle its 
sight shall nerve me to greater courage : or, perhaps, 
when lying on the field of death, its sight shall bring to 
me thoughts of the loved one at home. 

B. — But we will hope to meet again ; yet should we 
not, we will hope to meet above. 

C — And now good-by, I must go \ihey embrace each 
other]. God bless you ! 

B. — And you also, and return 3'ou safe. \_She accom- 
panies him to the door, where they part, and returning, 
she covers her face with her handkerchief, and sinks 
into a chair. Curtain falls]. 

Scene 3. — A tent, with a musket standing at the door. 
Charlet> lies within, dying of a ivound received in one 
of the last battles of the war. Henry, a comrade^ 
bending over him. 

Henry. — Charles, is there anj^ thing I can do for 
you ? 

CHA.RLES. — Water, give me a drink of water [he 
gives him a drink from his canteen], and now, if you 
have time, listen to me. You know my condition ; take 
this Bible, and should you live to go home, as I hope 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 47 

you "will, give it to my mother, and tell her that I have 
studied its precepts, and endeavored to obey its com- 
mands ; tell her that I have done my duty as a soldier, 
and kept m}^ honor unstained, and I will meet her in a 
better land. Take this ring, and give it to Blanche ; 
tell her that I have worn it, and as I told her, I part 
with it but with life : tell her that he who sent it never 
forgot her, even in his dying hour : tell her, too, not to 
regret the sacrifice she has made for her country, but 
rather to feel proud that she gave her lover in defence 
of her country's cause. But my strength is failing. 
Good-by. ^Pressing his hand. Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 4. — Curtain rises. Mother and Blanche are 
seated together. 

9 

Mother. — I wonder why Charles does not write, we 
have not heard from him for several weeks. 

Blanche. — As it is nearly time for the mail to arrive, 
I will go to the office ; perhaps we shall get a letter from 
him [^rising. Enter a soldier]. 

Soldier [bowing']. — Mrs. Gray, I believe ? 

Mother. — The same, sir. 

S. [presenting the Bible]. — I bring you 

M. [springing forward and catching the booh]. — My 
son ! my son ! you bring me news of him, oh, tell me — 
tell me all ! 

S. [with emotion]. — He bade me give it to you, and 
tell you that he had done his duty as a soldier, and 
died as a soldier should. 

M. — Oh my son! [pressing the Bible to her heart, and 
looking up]. God's will be done. 

S. — This, he directed me to give to you [presenting 
the ring to Blanche], and tell you that he never forgot 
you, even in his dying hour. [She takes it, and covering 
her face ivtth her handkerchief leaves the room.] 

Peace [advancing]. — Oh war, how dread are thy 
afflictions ! Oh, Columbia, how great the sacrifice which 
these thy daughters have made for thee ! Comfort thee, 
oh mother ; thy son rests among those blessed spirits, 
who nobly cemented our Nation with their blood. Thy 



iS SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

sacrifice was great, and thy reward of a nation's grati- 
tude, will also be great. Comfort thee ! Thy son per- 
ished as a martyr in a glorious cause, and his memory 
will ever be cherished by a grateful* people. 

Sleep on ! brave ones who nobly fell 

Upon the gory battle-field ; 
Your shroud, naught but a soldier's cloak, 

Your bier, your country's glorious shield: 

Sleep on ! your memory e'er is blest 

By those you nobly died to save ; 
And many a tributary tear 

Shall fall upon the soldier's grave. 

[ Curtain falls.} 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 49 



THE TWO INTERPRETERS OF DREAMS 

CHARACTERS. 

Grandma, arrayed in ancient costume, with spectacles, snuff- 
box, and knitting. 
Girls. — Olive, Sarah, Mary, and Maggie. 
Young ladies. — Alma and Cousin Emma. 



Grandma sits quietly knitting, when the girls rush in, 
asking together : 

Grandma, grandma, do you believe in dreams ? 

Grandma. — B'leve in dreams, child ! why of curse I 
dew. I b'leve the^^'re most as trew as Scripter. La, 
me [snuffing vigorously^ ! I've studied my dream-book 
most every mornin' for sixty yers! B'leve in dreams ? 
I've had so many come round all true, that I'll never 
doubt them. Why ! the night before my poor husband 
died \_sohhi7ig'], I dreamed that I saw him, so cold and 
lifeless, and in the m-ornin' sure enough he was in a 
ragin' fever. We sent right off for Dr. Slimpton ; he 
lived in the village of Middleburg. [StO'ps crying and 
knits.'] He and Jeremiah used to be great friends ; they 
never had a hard word but once, and that was when 
Jeremiah thought Simeon Slimpton was paying 'tention 
to me. Ah ! it makes me feel most young to think of 
those days ! [In her excitement grandma drops a stitch, 
tries in vain to pick it up, then goes on talking, dropping 
work.'] What lots of beaux I used to hev ! Wal, I 
wern't bad-lookin' ; my cheeks were red as yourn, Olive. 
My ej-es were bright; I could see better then. Here 
Olive, deary, help your grandmother [handing her 
knitting]. And my hair [touching the powdered locks]. 
Ah ! Jeremiah used to say these raven locks w^ere en- 
ehantin'. 

Sarah. — Well ! well ! Grandma, you were talking 
awhile ago of sending for Dr. Slimpton. Did grandpa 
get well ? 

Grandma [reprovingly]. — Get well ! child ? how ig- 
norant you a^e to think he could get well after I dreamed 
4 



50 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 

that! No ! I knew he couldn't. ISobbing.^ And after 
they sent for the doctor, I went right up stairs to see if 
my black bombazine would do to wear to the funeral. 
There it had lain in the chest for twenty yers, and was 
as good as new, and shone like silk. I got Nancy 
Maria Slimpton to fix it over for me ; she charged fifty 
cents. I think it was .shameful on such an occasion. 
Oh I poor Nancy Maria, she had lots of trouble after .1 
left there ; her nephew's youngest son abused her 
shamefull3^ and well nigh killed her 

Mary. — Well, grandma, nevermind Nancy Maria, now"; 
tell us about our dreams. I dreamed of fire ; and oh, 
how the flames swelled and surged around me ! I could 
not get away, fpr the doors were all fastened, and the 
crowd around me was so great. 

Grandma [sighing']. — Oh, poor Mary I 3^ou will meet 
with opposition in whatever you undertake, and 

Olive. — Oh, grandma ! I had an awful dream. I 
wandered in the woods, and savages wei'e pursuing me, 
and, in tr3dng to escape, I fell into a den of lions. Oh I 
they growled and opened their mouths, and then I 
awoke screaming, and have hardly got over the fright 
yet ! 

Grandma. — Oh, poor girl I that you have so many 
enemies, for such means your dream, and all too soon 
will you be caught in the traps they have set for j^ou. 
[Snuffing and sneezing.] Well, Maggie, child, did you 
dream ? 

Maggie. — Yes I such an awful dream of my dear sol- 
dier brother Robert, that he was at home, and lay so 
still 

Grandma. — Oh ! my poor, poor child ; so young to 
bear such a sorrow I Oh, dear! [Crying and applying 
handkerchief.] I dreamed the same when your grandpa 
died. Oh ! how I mourned. May be, now, Maggie, 
your brother lies in a hospital 

Maggie [wiping her eyes]. — Don't ; don't talk so, 
grandma; you make me feel so bad ! 

Grandma.— Well, well, child, it's all true ; dreams are 
solemn things. 

Sarah.— I dreamed last night of Uncle John, that he 
came home. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 61 

Grandma \_seeming startled, and rises, dropping her 
hall and snuff-box']. — Oh ! did 3^ou ? 

Sarah. — Yes ; and we were so glad to see him. 

Grandma. — Oh ! how strange ! for I dreamed the 
same thing, too. And it's a sure sign we'll never see 
him again. [Sobs, and buries her face in her handker^ 
chief.] Oh, my poor, poor boy ! I little thought this 
-when you bade me good-by, and started for California. 
Now may be you are dying on a western prairie. Oh I 
my poor boy I Girls, your old grandmother's heart is 
broken. 

Sarah.— But, grandma, may be he'll come home. 

Grandma [sternly]. — Hush ! hush, child ! Both of 
us dreamed the same. Dreams never fail. Oh, dear I 
Oh, dear I [Departs weeping.] 

Sarah. — There comes Alma. Alma, what makes you 
look so glad ? 

Alma. — Oh ! I had a dream. 

Sarah. — A dream ! a dream ! Do you believe in 
dreams ? 

Alma. — Yes ; I believe 

Olive. — Oh, girls! Alma believes in dreams. Why, 
Alma, I thought you alwa3^s laughed about them ! 

[All together.] Oh ! goody, goody ! I'm glad ; now 
you'll interpret our dreams. 

Maggie. — We don't like what grandma says, it make» 
us feel so bad. 

Mary. — I dreamed of fire 

Alma. — Hush ! hush girls ! you talk so fast. I com- 
menced to say, when you interrupted me, that I believed 
we dream — [Girls look disappointed, and, exclaim, Oh I 
is that all ? /'m sorry .']— and that we dream many strange 
things, and the reason is, we were thinking such 
thoughts, and they continued even after our eyes closed 
in slumber. Mary, was it strange jou. dreamed of fire, 
when you were reading last night of the great conflagra- 
tion in the city of Santiago, Chili? The great waste of 
life there, and the brutality of many, enlisted your sym- 
pathies and thoughts. 

Mary. — But grandma says I will meet with opposition. 

Alma. — Perhaps you will ! but not any more likely 
because of your dream. If Mary meets with opposition, 



52 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

I hope she will be strong and true, and meet it with a 
brave heart, remembering that that is what overcomes 
obstacles. 

Olive. — I fell into a den of lions ; and grandma said 
that meant I had man}'' enemies. 

Alma. — Of course you would dream of lions, after 
reading Dr. Livingstone's travels in Africa, and his ad- 
ventures with the king of beasts. And as for ene- 
mies, if you are loving, kind and true, and do to others 
as you would have them do to you, enemies will not 
harm you. 

Maggie. — Oh, Alma ! do you believe that my brother 
is in the liospital ? I dreamed he was sick. 

Alma. — No, no, child ! You were writing to him 
before retiring, and thinking perhaps danger would 
befall him. 

Sarah. — Grandma and I both dreamed of Uncle John, 
and she went off just now in a fit of hysterics, because 
she says it is a sure sign he is dead. 

Alma. — Nonsense ! Grandma is whimsical. She has 
thought and fancied so much about dreams, and that 
there was reality in them, that she makes both herself 
and others miserable. I hope you never will be so 
carried away by them, and borrow trouble about the 
future. Dreams are very pleasant, if we view them in a 
sensible light. I heard cousin Emma read something 
about them yesterday. 

Girls. — Oh, I would like to hear it 1 Wont she read 
it to us ? 

Alma. — I'll go after her. [Goes and returns soon 
with cousin Emma.'] 

Emma. — Well, girls, you see Alma has really "pressed 
nie into the service," so I'll not retreat, but do the best 
I can. [Reads.'] 

DREAMS. 
*' Come, Winnie, and sail on the River of Sleep, 
Where the fair Dream Islands be." 

Sleep may be likened to a broad, calm, beautiful river 
on which we sail at eventide, when twilight's dim, leaden 
mantle has changed to a darker hue. In our light barks 
we float calmly along, without a ripple or wave to dis- 
turb us, whoA the toi's of the day are over. This river 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



53 



is studded with fair and beautiful Dream Islands. Oh I 
the beauty with which they are adorned I We view their 
grand and delightful scenes, flashing rivers, cryst/il 
lakes, flowers with rare and sweet perfume, and birds 
with gay plumage and sweetest songs. 

And while our bark stops there, and we revel in the 
beauty and grandeur, we forget all worldl}'^ cares and 
annoyances. All with pure and holy thoughts may 
enjo3^ the beauty without money and without price. 
And very thankful am I for that. For the poor forget 
their pinching poverty. The longing eyes, which so 
delight in nature's grand and beautiful scenes, but are 
debarred from them, may now feast heart and soul. 
Those w^ho are separated from friends may again meet 
and commune with them. But even to some who sail 
on the river are beauties denied. To those whose 
lives are spent in selfish idleness, base crime, or those 
who daily drink of the maddening bowl — to these, dire 
serpents sluggishl}^ move the waters, and ferocious 
beasts start from the green thickets with glaring eyes 
and opened mouth. And madl}^ ti'jing to dispel the 
scene, the almost delirious victims of sin curse the 
River of Sleep, and even the fair Dream Islands. But 
to the good they prove a blessing. Ever flow thou on, 
peaceful river, set with emerald gems ! 

Sarah. — Alma, you said you had a dream. Tell it to 
us, and what makes you seem so happy. 

Alma. — Well, Sarah, I will answer you by repeating 
a poem which I love dearly, and then we must go to our 
lessons. \_She repeats ;] 



* Pleasant were my dreams last night, 
Till tlie dawn of morning liglit ; 
All the lonely niidniglu hours 
Huarned 1 Dream-laud's fairy bowers. 

' And the friends of Long Ago, 
Those I loved and cherished so, 
Looked on me with loving eyes, 
Clasped my hand in glad surprise, 

' Tender words, like holy balm, 
Filled my soul with heavenly calm ; 
Sweeter than the song of birds, 
Seemed to me those loving words. 



" But the joy within my heart, 
Does not with the niirhc depart ; 
Tender words my spirit thrill, 
Loving eyes look on me still. 

" I've been humming all day long, 
Snatches ot an old time song ; 
Know you why my heart is light? 
Pleasant were my dreams last night 

" Surely blessed are those hours, 
W'len, like dew vpon the flowers, 
Ftdl they on tJie weary, sleepivg ; 
Saddest eyes forget their weeping ." 



64 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

THE FOUR SEASONS.* 

[The curtain rises, and a little girl appears dressed in white, 
with scarf and sash of pink, a crown of small flowers on her 
head, and bouquets in her hand. She speaks : — ] 

I AM Spring. The}^ call me beautiful Spring. My 
step is light and my voice is glad. I love all that is , 
young ; I cheer all that is old. I call sweet flowers to^ 
light among the gi'a,y old rocks, and make the green 
leaves to tremble in their loveliness, among ancient ruins. 

1 bring not only soft, light, fresh winds, green 
leaves, and fair flowers with me, but young birds in their 
nests, and young lambs to play in the meadow^s. 

Little fishes dart about in the brooks, too, and frogs 
sing in the marshes. I come like Hope to the people. 
They hear my voice, and lay the seed in the ground, and 
trust it to the dew and the sunshine, the rain and the 
smile of God. 

I am a miracle worker on earth, and a tj^pe of the 
fadeless land toward which mortals journey. 

The prisoner in a gloomy dungeon far aw^a}^, feels 
my breath on his brow, and thinks of the rolling floods, 
and the glad joy in that mountain home in v/hose defence 
his comrades fell, for whose sake he can smile at impris- 
onment and death. In my smile he hopes. 

Now he says, " It is Spring time, and my brothers 
and friends will gird on their armor and come and liber- 
ate me." 

The Father above, who guides the 3'oung birds back 
to their last year's haunts, careth too for me, and it is 
Spring. Lights and shadow^s fell on the way of the red 
breast as he journeyed northward, but he hoped and 
trusted ; he was true as Spring, and Spring is as ti'ue as 
God. 

I am crowned with flowers; I am laden with them ; 
I am jo^^ous and fair ; I am a being of light, and melod}'-, 
and fragrance. 

I am the beautifier of Nature, the beloved of man, 
a visible promise of Paradise. In Heaven only n)ay [ 
tarry. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 55 

Here I come, but to depart. I must away, away 
to make room for -la^? lavely sister, the Summer; but 
forget me not. I am Spring, beautiful Spring. 
[Scattering the flowers, she departs.] 

I Enter Summer — A large girl in a pink dress and scarf, and 
sash of green, and a broad-brimmed straw hat wreathed with 
roses. On her left arm a small sheaf of wheat, in her right 
hand a sickle. She says : — ] 

. I am Summer, gay, and bright, and gleesome. 
" Laughing Summer" I am called. I have the brightest 
sunshine, the thickest canopy of leaves, the stillest, 
warmest air about me, and the bluest sky above. 

I come to the lands of the Xorth like a dream of 
tropical beauty. I call the dwellers of the city out into 
the forest haunts. I fill their souls with my glory. 
Young maidens are ever garlanded with flowers in my 
rei^n : and I hear the children's laus^hter rin^inor out on 
the air that is so sweet, wandering over orchards bright 
with clover blossoms, and meadows sweet with new 
mown hay. 

Happy Summer I am called. I fill the children's 
hands with strawberries. I load the trees with cherries 
for shouting boys to shake down into the aprons of 
bright-eyed little girls. 

In my smile the apples grow rosy and mellow, and 
the farmer's face is glad as he gathers the golden 
pears. It is when my step is abroad in the land that 
the poet weaves his brightest vision, and the patriot's 
devotion is truest. 

It is then he looks abroad and says: "My nati\e 
land ! my own, my native land I'' and '' Where's the 
coward that would not strike for such a land ?'■ I am 
the friend of the patriot soldier. The youth, on the 
lonely rounds of his picket duty, blesses God for me. 
Looking up to my starry sky. he thinks how, in his far- 
olf home, the eyes of dear ones rest on those same bright 
sentinels of heaven, the while they pray for him. 

Yes. I am Summer, the radiant and happy, even 
though there is war in the laud ; for Peace will come 
over the land at last like Summer and the Sun of Peace 



56 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

shall shine as my sun at noonda3^ The eagle shall 
spread his wing on the mountain unfearing ; the earth 
shall be glad and rejoice ; the reapers shall be man}", and 
the harvest plenteous. This is the voice of the passing 
Summer. 

[Autumn — A young ^irl in dress of buff or corn color, with 
bhie sash and scarf, and crowned with wheat or Autumn 
leaves and grasses ; in her hand a horn of plenty.] 

I am Autumn. Spring promised, and Summer 
brought, but I finish. 

They call me mellow Autumn, and jolly Autumn, 
and I, too, am loved. When barns and cellars are full, 
all hearts are happy. The blossoms of Spring were fair, 
and the roses of Summer bright ; but m}^ wild flowers 
are of gold and purple, and scarlet, royal, and radiant. 

I have strewn the wood paths with dry leaves, I 
have warned the dear birds that it was time to be gone 
southward ; but the chatter of squirrels over their hoarded 
treasures is heard in the woods, and the voices that go 
up from the streams are pleasant, the grasshopper's song 
is ended, and the bee hums near its hive. 

The girls have gathered the grapes, and the boj's 
the nuts ; the plough is tracing the furrows over the 
brown fields, and the farmer's table is graced by bread 
from his land, and honey from his hives. 

And my winds are wild and stirring in their tones : 

" They have been across red fields of war, 

Where shivered helmets lie, 
They have brought me tlience the thrilling note, 

Of a clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, 

A peal of stormy drums — 
All these are in their music met. 

As when a leader comes." 

Oh! what is like rich, ripe, mellow Autumn, in a 
land that God has blessed among the nations— a. land 
whose starry banner shall float over it, when iti people 
shall indeed be free ? 

This, oh land of beauty, is the prophecy of A» 
tumni 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 67 

[Winter — A boy representing an old man arrayed in an 
ample black cloak, trimmed with white fur — with gray liair 
streaming from beneath a heavy fur cap — a pair of skates 
swurig from his shoulder.] 

VV ^ 1 am Winter. I brouo^ht the snow, and the boys 

shouted hurrah ; the girls clapped their hands rosy with 

/ the cold, and said : " Ha ! ha !" I traced the pictures 

of wondrous beauty on the window panes, and bridged 

rivers, and hung pearls on the pine trees. 

I set my winds to shouting, and quickened every 
body's steps. My snow flakes whirl, my snow birds 
flutter by, and my clouds hurry. 

It is I that have the Christmas tree to decorate 
my halls, and the New Year's fire to blaze on my hearth ; 
and then the little cricket chirrups there, while the 
turkey roasts, and the apples and nuts are heaped in the 
basket. 

Oh! the boys get their skates now, and hurrah for 
the sport ! And the girls may come along too, and 
listen to the sleigh bells ! what fun ! hurrah ! To be 
upset in the snow-drifts, ah, that is merry ! 

Yes, I am Winter, and most welcome to all, no 
thanks to fair young Spring, bright Summer, and mild 
Autumn to be cheerful ; but for W^inter, an old man to 
come with such grace and pleasantry, that all are glad 
to see him — that is fine! W^inter, Winter, happy is 
the country that rejoices in thee ! 

The merriest games are played in my long even- 
ings, the sweetest songs are sung then, and the best 
stories told. 

Beautiful are the shadows that the fire-light casts 
on the wall, and " pleasant and mournful to the soul the 
memory of joys that are past !" 

I bade you rejoice, but I bid you also to mourn — ■ 
, to mourn for those whose deaths have made hearths safe 
and holy — those peasant men who became warriors at 
their country's call. 

Let the records of their bravery be eternal! While 
ever your homes are dear, praise ye the men who 
perished to preserve them, and let Winter beseech you 
to care for the widow and orphan. 



58 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Under the cold light of my stars, their homes 
seem doubly desolate, and my winds to them take the 
sound of bitter wailing. 

I am Winter, and 'tis my A'oice that asks jou to 
care for the poor, who have offered up their beloved on 
the altar of sacrifice, and while you pray " God be 
merciful!" be ye merciful, give, give — it is laying up 
treasures in heaven. 

Winter is the friend of Freedom. Amid the snowy 
Alps, the undaunted Tell, with his friends, defied the 
tyrant ; and at Valley Forge the patriotism and the 
heroism of Washington and his army were sublime and 
God-like. Shall the descendants of such fathers hold 
Liberty less dear ? 

[Spring, Summer, and Autumn appear again, and clasping 
hands with winter, form a circle. Winter proceeds : — 
" It is your banner in the skies, 

Through each dark cloud that breaks, 
And mantles with triumphant dyes, 
Your thousand hills and lakes." 

This is the voice of the whole year. 

[The curtain falls.] 



SCHOOL AFFAIRS IN RIYERHEAD DISTRICT. 

CHARACTERS. 
Squire Wiseman, "^ 

Job Turner, and > School Committee. 
Hans Schweitzer, ) 

Joseph Harris, an accomplished gentleman and Teacher.—, 
Sam Price the preference of the Board. 
Pupils. 



Scene 1. — Harris and his Scholars. 

Har, — My dear pupils ! I desire to say a few wo'*de 
to you, before I dismiss the school to-night. You have 
all done well to-day, and I love to encourage you. Do 
you not all feel better after doing a good day's work? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 59 

Pupils. — Yes, indeed. 

Har. — I know 3'ou do. I knew just what you were 
going to say. Work does us a great deal of good. It 
makes the blood course freely in our veins. It makes 
our cheeks glow. It is better than medicine, because it 
prevents many ills. It does us good to think about 
good deeds. And I know you all feel better, to-night, 
because you have a good day's work to think about. Don't 
you all love to study and learn hard lessons ? If any 
boy or girl, in my school, does not like to spend his 
time well, does not feel better when he has worked hard, 
and has done something, let him raise his hand. \_One 
hand is raised.'] 

Har. — Well, Charlie, speak out. Do you not feel 
oetter when at work ? 

Charlie. — Not a bit of that. I feel best when I am 
wabblin about. 

Har. — Come here, Charlie. I like to see you honest. 
I love honest boys. Always speak the truth. I like to 
see 3^ou all active. Charlie doesn't understand me. He 
thinks I am commending boys who are always still. I 
do not mean that. Industry requires activity. Indus- 
trious students, however, are industrious thinkers. And 
thought is silent. [^Another hand is raised.] What do 
you want to say, James ? 

James. — Do thoughts always keep still ? 

Har. — Not always. They often seek expression. 
But much talking indicates little thought. We ought 
to express our thoughts ; but look out for proper occa- 
sions. You may recollect the proverb which says : 
" Still waters run deep." To turn upon another subject : 
I am sorry to think, scholars, that we are so perplexed 
about classing and teaching you properly. Our books 
have become so various, that I find it very difficult to 
teach as I would like. I do not find as much time for 
each class, as I could if our system of books, studies, 
etc., were improved. But let us be patient. I intend 
to see Squire Wiseman, the most prominent and influen- 
tial man of the school board, and see what can be done 
to better our condition. In the meantime, let us work 
hard to get our lessons well. We will close school by 
repeating a few of James Montgomery's questions am} 



60 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

answers. [^School divides — one class on the right and 
one on the left of the stage.^ 

1st class. Nature, "whence sprang thy glorious frame ? 

2d class, ^ly ^faker called me and I came. 

Vst class. Oh, Sun ! what makes thy beams so bright ! 

2d f/ass. The word that said. " Let there be light." 

l.s^ class. Planets, what guides you in your course ? 

2d class. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. 

Isi class. Flowers, Avherefore do you bloom? 

2d class. AVe strew thy pathway to the tomb. 

l.s^ class. Dews of the morning, wherefore are ye given? 

2d class. To shine on earth, then rise to heaven. 

1st class. Time, whither dost thou flee ? 

2d class. I travel to eternity. 

Ist class. Oh, Life ! what is thy breath ? 

2d class. A vapor lost in death. 

1st class. Oh, death ! how ends thy strife ? 

2d class. In everlasting life. 

Har. — School is dismissed. [AU j^ass out.2 

Sqene 2. — 3Ij\ Harris, Squire Wiseman and Job Turner. 

Har. — How are 3-011, my good friend ? I have been 
desirous of meeting you for some time. I have much 
which concerns the common interests of our school and 
district to couA-erse about. 1 fear we shall not have 
time for all. 

Sq. W. — Perhaps not. But it doesn't matter. I am 
not very well versed in these scliool atfairs, you 
know. And a conversation would not be of mnch ser- 
vice to you, it may be. However, I shall be happy to 
meet yon, at the office, some evening. 

Har. — That w^ill not do. I have little time for any 
thing merely promotive of m}' own pleasure. I must 
improve a moment, at present, I think, hoping that you 
will pardon the impropriety there ma}' be in urging it. 
I have been thinking of trying to remove a difficulty 
under which we labor respecting books. 

Sq. W. — What difficulties do the books make ! I 
thought the}- were made to remove difficulties. 

Har. — So they were. Yet some do their work but 
poorly enough — making more than they remove. 

Sq. W. — How is that? How is that? Are j'ou get- 



S-CHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 61 

ting SO wise as to know more about books than the 
book-makers ? 

Har. — I can tell, I think, when a book serves a good 
purpose as a text, and when not. 

Sq. W. — Well ! well I How are you going to mend 
things ? The law will not allow you to interfere with 
our books, 

Har. — 'Tis true ; and most properly is such inter- 
ference, on my part, prohibited. But I wish to influence 
3'^ou, and those associated with you, as a school com- 
mittee, to the fulfillment of your duty respecting this 
matter. I would like to see the very wise provisions 
of our law enforced, respecting a uniformity at least. 

Sq. W. — I never could see much force in the statute' 
to which you refer. 

Har. — Indeed ! Perhaps you have not reflected upon 
its importance. To me it is one of the most essential 
and important features of the code. 

.Sq. W. — I generally look at the importance of things, 
sir. I should not be qualified to act as umpire for 
others, were it not the case. 

Har. — Let me then call your attention to the great 
want of classification, existing in our school, when I 
first took charge of it — a want, too, which still exists, 
and which is occasioned, solely, on account of the 
variety of text-books used by pupils of the same age 
and advancement. 

Sq. W. — Well, I can't see how it matters about the 
book, if pupils be well and correctly taught. 

Har. — True ! but how can they be well taught in such 
a case as mine ? 

Sq. W. — Hem ! Well, if people have books, they 
will hardly trouble themselves to get more. 

Har. — But they should. And, by the law, they are 
bound to, if prescribed by the right authority. The 
convenience of one should be sacrificed to the necessi- 
ties of the many. 

Sq. W. — Oh, well ! I fear you can't introduce these 
new-fangled notions among us. We are a steady, 
straight-forward people. Don't go in for change. 

Har. — Except pocket change 1 I do not desire to in- 
troduce such notions as those, of which you speak. 



62 SCHOOIJ)AV DIALOGUES. 

The law has anticipated me in the premises, looking, as 
it did, to the pressing demands of the youth of our 
schools. I would like to see its wise provisions executed. 
I, therefore, appeal to you as the authorized agents of 
the law-making power to attend to our wants. I should 
Le glad to give any advice that would assist you in the 
adjustment of our difficulties. 

[Enter Job Turner, another member of the school 
committee.^ 

TuR. — What advice is that ar you propose to give 
to us ? I heard you had gone over to stir up a fuss, 
and I thought I'd come over and see tew it. We don't 
want men around here who can't attend to their own 
business. 

Har. — I am surprised, Mr. Turner. All that I have 
done, I have done with honest intentions. I am not 
aware that I have overstepped the bounds of my duty. 

TuR. — Is it your business to run down our school- 
house ? 

Har. — It is my duty to call attention to what I be- 
lieve to be for the good of the school. 

Sq. W. — Why, Mr. Harris, what is the matter with 
our house ? We all got our education in it. 

Har. — It may be. But it is now grossly dilapidated. 

TuR. — Now I am a new hand in tliis business. But 
I know such things as these will make trouble. 

Har. — I must go. I hope we shall all do our best 
in our respective capacities to meet all the wants of 
those under our care. [Exit Harris.^ 

Sq. W. — Now, Job, this is insulting. We can't stand 
this. I am not penurious — but — but let us quietly get 
rid of this man. I can, perhaps, induce him to resign. 

TuR. — Go it, squire. I am in. I'll be bound if we 
wont show him that he can't rule all Riverliead. After 
we git him out, we'll have an examination and employ 
accordin' to our own notions. 

Scene 3. — Squire Wiseman, J. Turner, H. Shweitzerf 
and Samuel Price. Examination day. 

Sq. W. — I suppose you heard of the resignation of 
Mr. Harris as teacher in our school. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 63 

TuR. — I did that. It takes you, squire, for them 
things. I heard to-day there was an examination, and 
I thought I'd come up in time to get posted. 

Sq. W.— Well, I don't like to talk about myself. But 
somehow or other, I always thought I could manage 
all these delicate affairs with some success. Eh ? 

TuR. — Exactly, squire. And I must say I felt kinder 
proud to be elected school committee with you. You 
see, I knew that affairs would go on swimmingly, as 
long as you manage them. [Squire struts about with 
importance.'] 

Sq. W.— Yes— Yes. Wall, I hope they will. 

TuR. — Oh ! I know they will. Don't talk to me, when 
the squire is in for any thing. It's all right. I need to 
learn. 

Sq. W. — All right, neighbor. We ought to move 
carefully in these matters. 

TuR. — Yes, I reckon we had. Look what everlastin' 
musses are kicked up sometimes, because things aint 
arranged as they orto be. 

Sq. W. — So, so. The time for the examination has 
nearly arrived. Let me tell you one thing, Job. Let 
us all work together. Our friend, Schweitzer, who is 
one of the committee, as you are aware, is very strong 
in his opinions, sometimes. And, under such circum- 
stances, it will be better to sacrifice our own notions, 
you know, in order to preserve harmony. 

TuR. — Well, I reckon so, too. But there are some 
pints about teachin' that I allow to know a heap about, 
and I'd like to have my say, you know. 

Sq. W. — Oh, certainly! We all have that privilege. 
\_Enter Schweitzer.'] 

ScHW. — Goot afternoon. Yot for ye talkin' so much ? 
Ish it not time for de examination ? 

TuR. — Don't get into a flurry now. We're goin' to 
sarve the public now. We must look — — 

ScHW. — Yot for you look so long ? You never do de 
vork in dis vay. I must go home in one hour to sow 
my turnips. So hurry on. 

Sq. W. — As soon as our friends, the teachers, come, 
we will proceed. 

ScHW. — Yell, den. Here comes a poor tivil of a 



64 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

schoolmaster, I know. Ax him a few quibbles, and if 
he can't answer noting, praps he can teach the young 
uns to spell. [Enter Sam Price, applicant for a 
school^ 

Sq. W. — Take a seat, sir. [ Teacher gawks about, and 
finally sits down with his hat on."] 

TuR. — Well, squire, do you know this man ? I reckon 
he is arter a school. 

Sq. W. — I suppose so. Friend, did you see our 
notice ? 

Price. — Yas, I did. I thought I'd come up. 

ScHW. — Yot for you come up ? Can you teach 
school ? 

TuR. — Hold on, now. We are goin' into a regular ex- 
amination in a minnit. All these things '11 come out 
then. I am goin' in for first-rate disqualifications. 

ScHW. — Veil, den, go to vork. I no go in for so much 
zamination, or vot you call him. 

TuR. — Come, Squire, this is your business. [Squire 
looks wise and proceeds.'] 

Sq. W. — What is your name ? 

Price. — Samuel Price, sir. 

ScHW — Who cares for de name ? 'Tis de teacher we 
want. 

Sq. W. — What is the place of your nativity ? 

Price. — What is it, sir ? 

TuR. — Where did you live when you was born ? he 
says. 

Price. — I don't remember. I guess 'twan't far off. 

Sq. W. — Where were you educated ? 

Price. — I don't jest understand you. 

ScHW. — Yare did you larn noting ? he says. 

Price. — I larnt some at school — but more sence I got 
out on't. 

TuR. — Have you got any more sense than you used 
to have ? 

Price. — I saved a little change in teachin' down 
country. 

Sq, ^^^, — Then you have had some experience ? 

Price. — Oh, yas I 

Sq. W.^ — Did you please the people ? 

Price. — I don't know. Spect I did. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 65 

Sq. W. — Will you read some for us ? Here is a book. 
[Beads awkwardly but very loud. Job Turner gets per- 
fectly astonished at the fine elocution.'] 

TuR. — Good gracious, mister ! Where did you larn 
to read like that ? It beats every thing I ever dreamed 
of. I reckon you can teach some, can't ye ? You see, 
we all go in for the very best kind o' larnin' about here 
— cipherin', spellin', and the like. That sounds more 
like real edication than any thing I've listened to in a 
long time. Excuse me, squire ; really I didn't mean to 
disturb you. 

Sq. W. — What's grammar ? 

Price. — Grammar is the way things is done — perticu- 
lerly in the matter of speakin', talkin', riten', etc. 

Sq. W. — How is it divided ? 

Price. — Among the scholars accordin' to their ages. 

Sq. W. — What is a noun ? 

Price. — Any thing you can hear, feel or taste. 

ScHW. — Yes, and schmell, too, I b'leve. 

Sq. W. — What is a verb ? 

Price. — A verb is what bees, doos, suffers, ax, and 
passes. 

Sq. W. — What verbs are transitive ? 

Price. — Some verbs is transitive, and some isn't. 

Sq. W. — Will you do some geometr}^ for us ? — any 
thing you please. 

Price. — Oh, yas. The four sides of an icicle triangle 
is about equal to three right angles ; and a round 
circle aint got no end. 

Sq. W. — Well, that will do, unless the other gentle- 
men have questions to ask. 

ScHW. — Oh, no, it ish goot — betters as I have heard in 
a long time. 

TuR. — We have heard enough to satisfy us, I reckon. 

Sq. W. — Will you please to retire I [Price passes 
out.'] 

Sq. W. — Well, what do you think ? I don't exactly 
like the appearance of the man. 

ScHW. — He looks well enough. 'Tis te teacher w^e 
want. 

Sq. W. — But the address of a man has a great influ- 
ence upon pupils. 
5 



QQ SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

TuR. — He^s smart, though; aint he, squire? 

Sq. W. — Yes, rather apt, though his answers were not 
all correct. Still — we — have been psLjing rather too 
high. If this man will teach for a reasonable salary 1 
am willing to employ him — say ten dollars a month. 

ScHW. — I go for ten dollars a mont, too. 'Tis pig 
brice 1 know. But the poor tivil must live. 

TuR. — I am willin' to agree to what's fair in his case. 
Ten dollars is above my mark, some two dollars. But 
I see he is a goin' to do up the business right, and I ani 
willin' to agree to the price. 

Sq. W. — Inform him, Mr Turner, of his appointment, 
and if he accepts, he can commence immediately. 

ScHW. — Squire, you see dat dis deacher puts in de 
whole time. We no wants to lose money on dis pargain, 
nohow. \_Exit all.^ 

Scene 4. — Sam Price in school. Pupils talking loud 
and noisy. 

Prece. — Silence ! 1 1 D'ye hear that ? Set down ! ! 
Take off your hats I ! Ef ye don't be still now, I'll 

use that hickory to your hearts' content, ye young 

Class in jogerphy, come up. \_Pupils come shuffling and 
crowding. ~\ Where do you live ? 

Class. — At home. 

Tea. — Right ; but in what town ? I meant. 

Cl. — Don't know. 

Tea. — Riverhead. 

Cl. — Riverhead. Riverhead. Riverhead. 

Tea. — What's the shape of the earth ? 

Cl. — Of a punkin shape. 

Tea. — What motion has it ? 

Cl. — It goes on an axle-tree, and has a motion biggei 
yet. 

Tea. — What town in the Great Desert ? 

Cl. — Egypt. 

Tea.— What State in New York? 

Cl. — Yarmount. 

Tea. — Class dismissed. 

Pupils. — Maj^I go out ? Please, may I go out ? Master, 
let me go out ? Tom's pinchin'. Master, may I tell you 
on Jim ? lie's ben doin' somethin', etc. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALO(^UES. 67 

Tea. — Yes, yes. All go out. \^AU run — two or three 
fall down. Teacher rings a bell repeatedly, but no 
scholars come in. Soliloquizes.'] Plague on the var- 
mints. I'll lick 'em. I wonder if I was born to teacli 
school, any how? That's what they all say. But I 
don't believe it, jest. Here I am, and nobody to listen 

to m}^ valuable instructions. I'll go and resign — . 

No I wont either. Dad and mam '11 laugh too much to 
see me comin' hum now. I give fust, best kind o' satis- 
faction among the people. They all sa}^ I beat the 
other teacher— Harris — all to nothin'. They had to turn 
him out. He kicked up the greatest fuss about this old 
house, books, and other foolish things, ever I heerd tell 
on. I'm thinking ef he warnt about right, tew. We have 
got the scurviest old house in creation, I rex^kon. But 
a feller can get on in these ere parts, ef he only has the 
larnin'. That's what puts me through. I know how 
it goes by experience. But if I could only make these 
varmints toe the scratch, I'd go it slick as ile. Only 
keep dark about matters furrin to real teachin', and a 
feller can become popular in these diggins — just as easy 
— That's so [_Bings.2 Confound the ung uns. I wish 
the old Harry had 'em, and I was in Hardscrabble agin 
'long with the old folks. Wouldn't I get drunk on 
apples and cider, and go to see Sally, eh ? Wouldn't I 
be up to that ? Oh, yes ! Thar's them boys goin' into 
that orchard. [ Takes his hat and runs back and forth.'] 
I'll haze 'em. ^Euns back for his whip.] I'll lick 'em. 
Dogs and all mustard ! I'll bring 'em up and see if 
they'll go away agin. Ef I don't lam 'em I - [Lfiavp.s.] 



NOYEL READING. 

CHARACTERS. 
Lena Grey. Her brother. 
Frank Grey. 
Edgar Ramon. 



Edgar. — Will you please tell me what book you are 
reading, Lena ? I have been regarding your countenance 
for sometime, and by its ever varying expression I 
judge you are much interested. 



68 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Lena. — I am interested ; it is the most fascinating 
story I ever read. 

Edgar. — Will you please tell me the character of the 
book ? I can not consider it one that requires much 
profound stud}^ ; you turn the leaves too rapidly. 

Frank. — Her glances are quick and comprehensive; 
a very few convey to her mind all the information she 
desires. 

Lena. — The book is a novel, I suppose ; for it contains 
the usual amount of love, jealousy, sentiment, and crime ; 
but do you think it is wrong to spend a little time oc- 
casionally in reading merely for amusement ? 

Edgar. — That depends upon the kind of amusement 
the book affords. We would not pelt ourselves with 
stones for the sake of obtaining exercise ; nor should 
we permit the mind to indulge in recreation equally 
injurious. 

Lena. — Most surely you would not imply that be- 
cause I indulge in novel reading, I shall render myself 
less capable of performing the trivial duties of daily life. 
With the greatest economy of time I can obtain only a 
few hours each day for mental culture ; and should I 
spend even the greater part of that in novel reading, 
what evil could result from it ? 

Edgar. — In the words of the learned Daniel Wise, 
let me reply, " Obscured, feeble intellect, a weakened 
memory, an extravagant and fanciful imagination, be- 
numbed sensibilities, a demoralized conscience, and a 
corrupted heart." 

Lena. — Could I believe that all that troop of evils 
would follow so harmless a pastime, I would never 
again unfold the covers of a novel. 

Frank. — Were success even possible, I would try to 
convince you of the truth ; but you are so persistent in 
the maintenance of an agreeable tenet, that I fear you 
would employ your inclination rather than reason in 
forming a conclusion. 

Lena. — If I have ever given you occasion to form 
such an opinion of me, I certainly regret it ; but why 
should novel reading obscure the intellect ? We are 
brought in contact with some of the most lovely and 
pure beings that the imagination can conceive; we trace 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 69 

their conduct through an ever eventful life ; we observe 
the motives that controlled their acts ; and are we not 
benefited ? We are also led to contemplate viler shades 
of character. We behold ignorance, miser}^ vice, and 
crime; we trace their origin; they excite our loathing; 
and we discern more clearly the excellence of virtue. 

Frank. — I should certainly rejoice could I believe 
that you had been so benefited. 

Edgar. — Novels address themselves to the passions ; 
and there is great danger that we shall sympathize not 
only with the pure and lovely characters portrayed by 
the novelist, but also with those that are less worthy. 
Thieves, profligates, and murderers, are represented as 
shrewd, ingenious, and talented ; and the fact that they 
possess qualities that are admirable, renders them ob- 
jects of greater interest to us. We regard such charac- 
ters as necessary to form an agreeable contrast with the 
more angelic beings ; and the more deepl^^ they are cast 
in blood and crime, the more pleasing is the effect. 

Lena. — How can the study of such contrasts disaffect 
the mind ? May we not admire the talent that enables 
a man to accomplish a bad purpose, and yet despise the 
doer? 

Edgar. — Novels are not read merely for the purpose 
of observing the contrasts of character presented there, 
nor for criticism ; but, as you have said, ''for amuse- 
ment." They fill the mind with lively pictures of what 
might be true ; and yet the utter improbability that a 
person would ever be placed in similar circumstances 
renders it useless that we should burden our memory 
with a record of the lives portrayed there. 

Lena. — There is one excellency, at least, that I trust 
you will accord to novels ; they certainly tend to make 
the imagination more vivid. 

Frank. — My dear sister, I deeply regret your appar- 
ent ignorance in regard to the adaptation of words. 
Assuredly, you would not have used the adjective 
"lofty," instead of "distorted," had you considered 
how illy it expressed your meaning. 

Edgar. — There are many most excellent works of the 
imagination ; the productions of the most gifted minds ; 
Such might well repay our perusal. But novel reading 



70 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

intoxicates our minds rather than elevates our concep- 
tions ; for, even as the inebriate, jovial with wine, fancies 
he has attained the height of happiness, so the novel 
reader, lost in the mazes of fiction, believes that all the 
longings of her mind are satisfied. Then, too, reading 
should be pursued for benefit, and ladies are seldom 
deficient in imagination. 

Frank. — That is certainly true. If all Lena's plans 
could have been carried into effect, our earth would 
have been an Eden, our home a paradise, long ago. 

Lena. — Do you condemn all works of fiction ? 

Edgar. — No ; there are some fictitious writings most 
excellent in their character. I would object only to 
those which leave the mind in an excited, unsatisfied 
state, which " rob us of a higher pleasure than they 
afford, since the same attention to solid reading would 
procure us loftier, purer pleasures." 

Lena. — Your argument is specious ; but I certainly 
do not like to believe it. I will not decide immediately 
on so important a question. 

Frank. — You will rather wander awhile in the ditch 
in order to see if you will be defiled. 

Lena. — No ; I will stand on the bank and consider. 



THE DEMONS OF THE GLASS. 

CHAEAOTERS. 

J^"r.|p— ""^"'l drinking friends. 

ToTiE, a fairy. 

Poverty. 

Crime. 

Disease. 

Edith. 

Little Child and Servant. 



Scene L — Enter Pennington and Spencer. 

Pennington. — Now, Jerry, sit down and have some- 
thing before you go down street. This is a raw day 
out, you know. 

Spencer. — I can stay but a few minutes, PenningtoiL 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 71 

You are aware that I must meet my father at the depot 
in — let me see — \takes out his watch'] — ^jnst fifteen min- 
utes. \_They both sit down at a table.'] 

Penn. — This would be a cold world, indeed, Jerry, if 
we couldn't have a little something warm to take occa- 
sionally, you know. [Bings the bell] Good whisky, 
Jerry, is the best thing in the world to develop the 
latent caloric in the human system, physiologicallj'' 
speaking. \_Enter servant.] 

Servant. — Did you ring, sir ? 

Penn. — Yes, I rang. Bring us some of that best, 
whisky, Tom. Mind, the best. Of course I rang. 
.Didn't 3^ou know what to bring, without coming to see? 

Servant. — I might have known. \_Aside.] He doesn't 
want much else but whisky any more. 

Penn. — Quit your muttering there, and bring the 
whisk}^ 

Servant. — Yes, sir. \_Exit.] 

Spencer. — It's well to have a good friend, Penning- 
ton, and I've often thought that we ought to look to each 
other's interests a little more. James Pennington, I 
believe we are both indulging in the glass too much. 
For my part, I have determined to quit short off. 
When I drink this time with you — [enter servant with 
two glasses, filled, on a waiter, and exit] — it shall be the 
last. 

Penn. — What ! why, Jerry, whisky's a great institu- 
tion. It's the life and soul of a man almost. [ Takes 
up glass and hands it to Spencer ; takes the other him- 
self; both rise.] Here's health, Jerry, and may you 
never think less of me for saying, Here's to your reso- 
lution I 

Spencer. — May you never live to realize the tortures 
of the " Demons of the Glass !" [Pennington drinks. 
Spencer, unnoticed, cautiously throws the contents of his 
glass upon the floor.] So now, Pennington, good-by. I 
must go. 

Penn. — Good-night, Jerry. Stop and see me often. 
[Exit Spencer.] " Demons of the Glass!" What does 
he mean ? I feel ver}^ strange to-night. I don't think 
I'm drunk. I've been drunk before, and I didn't feel 
this way. Pshaw ! doctors often recommend whisky — 



72 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Bay it's good for consumption. Well, so it is ; good for 
Tiiy consumption, for I do consume it sometimes, that's 
certain. Ha ! Ha I that's a g-o-a-k \_8pelled only'\ as 
friend A. Ward has it. [Rings beW]. Whisky is good. 
" I like it," as an old hotel-keeper out West used to say. 
Good to raise the spirits. [Three or four distinct raps 
near the table. Starts in his chair, astonished.^ Hallo I 
what's that ! Spirits raised sure enough. [Enter ser- 
vayit with glass on waiter.'] You're a good fellow, Tom. 
When I shuffle off this mortal coil — die, I mean — I'll 
leave you all my old clothes. [Drinks.'] . 

Servant [aside]. — He won't have much else to leave 
any body, if he keeps going on at this rate. 

Penn. — You're a good fellow, Tom ; bring me another 
glass of this soul-reviving elixir of life. 

Servant [aside]. — He likes "er" that's true I [Aloud.] 
Another, sir ? 

Penn. — I — said — hie — another — didn't I ? An — hie — 
'nother 1 Of course another. [Exit servant.] Another 
. — hem 1 why not ? Whisky is a fundamental princ- 
— hie — ciple. What's a fellow to do if there's no spirit 
in him. Another ? I can afford — hie — to drink as much 
as I please. I'm a — hie — able. I'm rich. I'm going to 
marry the handsomest, the richest, the most intelligent 
lady in the city. I'm going to — to — be the happiest 
man alive — [enter servant with glass — Penningtoji takes 
it] — if Edith Graham and this can make me. You 
didn't put just a little too much water in this, did you, 
Tom? 

Servant. — No, I hope not. \^Exit.] 

Penn. [sets the glass on the table and looks at it], — 
Jerry said something about " Demons of the Glass." I 
don't see any. Jerry's a good fellow, and when he said 
that, he must have meant something. I feel very strange, 
sleepy, and drowsy. [Thoughtfully and low.] "Demons 
in the glass." [Falls asleep with his head on his arm 
resting on the table.] 

[ Three or four girls sing a stanza or two of some 
temperance song — very softly — from some con- 
cealed place on the f<tage. During the singing, 
enter Totie, a foAry, dressed in white, with a 
wand in her hand.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOG^^ES. 73 

ToTiE [looks at the sleepei^'j. — Ah ! who have we here? 
This man needs my attention. [Takes up the glass and 
looks at it.'] Oh ! poor deluded mortal, why will you 
drink this vile stuff'? I must help him to see his con- 
dition. [ Waves her wand over him. He starts up and 
looks around, wildly.'] 

Penn. — Who — who — was that ? [Starts back with 
astonishment when he sees Totie.] Who are you ? 

ToTiE.— Totie I 

Penn. — Who ? 

Totie. — Te — to — tal. Totie for short. 

Penn. — What do you want here, and with me ? 

Totie. — I came on an errand of mercy to j^ou. 

Penn. — To me ? Well, now, that's a fine joke. Well, 
before you commence business, won't you have a little 
nip to waken up your spirits ? Hey ? 

Totie. — No, I come to warn you. That [pointing to 
glass] is what demons feed fools and dupes upon. 

Penn. [aside]. — Demons again ? [Aloud.] Pools and 
dupes ? 

Totie. — James Pennington are you a fool or a dupe? 

Penn. — I acknowledge being a fool or a dupe ? No I 
no, indeed ! 

Totie. — What is in that glass ? 

Penn. — Whisky; and good whisky, too, if I am a 
judge. 

Totie.— What else ? 

Penn. [looking in the glass]. — Nothing else there, 
Totie. 

Totie. — ^You are blind, James Pennington. There is 
in that glass enough to make you cry out in despair 
and hide your eyes for very horror ! There are demons 
in that glass. 

Penn. [starting]. — Demons ? 

[Totie waves her wand — Disease appears.] 

Penn. — Who are you ? 

Disease [in a hollow tone], — My name is Disease. I 
am the messenger of Death, come to warn you. My 
home is there [pointing to glass], in the bottom of that 
cup. 

Penn. — Rather a small home for you, I should think, 
from 3"our size 



74 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Disease. — It is large enough for me and all who are 
with me there. [^JExit.'] 

\_Totie waves her wand — Poverty appears.'] 

Poverty. — My name is Poverty. 

Penn. — I should say you are well named by your 
appearance. 

Poverty. — In the bottom of that glass is my home. 

Penn. — I have never seen you there. 

PovERTY.^ — You were blind. Thousands and thou- 
sands have found me there, as you will in reality at no 
distant day. \_Exit.'\ 

ToTiE. — There are others at the bottom of that cup. 
Shall 3'OU see them ? 

Penn. — Oh no! no I I've seen enough I I've seen 
enough ! 

ToTiE. — But 3^ou shall see them. 

[ Waves her wand and Crime appears, clad in rags, 
and chains on his hands and feet.'} 

Penn. — I wish to see no more. This is horrible ! 

Crime. — My name is Crime. I live at the bottom of 
yonder glass. By-and-by you will know me better, and 
do my bidding. I am a " Demon of the Glass." Those 
who use the glass, obey its lord. 

Penn. — Oh I leave me ! leave me ! What does all 
this mean ? 

ToTiE. — There is more miserj^ there \_pointing to the 
glass] — you shall see more. 

Penn, — I've seen too much now! My whole soul is 
full of terror. [Fairy waves her wand — Poverty re- 
enters, bringing with him Edith and little child.] Oh I 
merciful heavens I what do I see ? Is it possible ? 
That miserable woman, Edith ? Edith Graham ? 

ToTiE. — This is a vision of the future. That is Edith, 
your wife, and that is your child.. 

Penn. — That my wife 1 That half-starved child mine I 
Oh, no! no ! That can never be. 

ToTiE. — Listen ! 

Child [looking up at Edith]. — Oh, mamma, I am so 
cold, so hungry. 

Edith [weeping]. — I know you are, my child, but 
food, nor clothing, nor shelter, I have not for you. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 75 

Child.— Will papa come for us to-night ? I'm sure 
when he comes we will be happy again. 

Edith. — Alas ! my child, your father fills a drunk- 
ard's grave, and we are left to starve. Once we were 
rich, but now all is gone. Misery, and only misery, is 
our portion. 

\_Pennington covers his face with his hands, and 
lays his head upon the table. A few stanzas of a 
temperance song are again sung softly by the girls, 
concealed on the stage. The fairy, Edith, etc., all 
exit, softly. * * * Stands up — looks around ] 
Penn. — Was that all a dream? Oh, what a dream I 
[Bings the bell. Enter Tom.^ Tom, take that glass 
away. There are legions of demons in the bottom of 
it — and bring me the cold water pledge. My resolu- 
tion is taken. Never shall another drop of that vile 
liquor pollute my lips. That dream has saved me. 
[^Curtain falls.'] 



THE TWELVE MONTHS. 

[for twelve ladies.] 
COSTUMES. 
January, white dress with dark sash. 
February, white dress with dark sash. 
March, same as February. 
April, white dress with green sash. 
May, same as April, with a few flowers in her hidr. 
June, same as May. 

July, white dress with pink or red sash. 
August, same as July. 
September, white dress with yellow sash. 
October, same as September. ■ 
November, white dress with dark sash. 
December, same as November. 



[Each speaker should enter separately, and after speaking, 
take her place in such position that after all have entered they 
will form a semicircle, facing the audience.] 

January. — I come mid frost and snow to usher in 
the New Year. People dresd me, and say that I am 



76 SCHOOLDAY to^'.OurES. 

cold-tearted and stern ; and it may be so, but I robe the 
ground with a mantle of fleecy snow, and I bind the 
babbling brook with fetters of ice. Although manhood 
and age shiver and tremble when I am near, yet the 
merrj^ laughing children love me, and call me glorious 
January. 

February. — My name is February. The month I 
represent, gave birth to a Washington, whose deeds of 
noble valor and heroism have caused me to be loved by 
all mankind, despite the cold and frost that still linger 
about me, bequeathed to me by my scarcely more stern 
and elder sister, January. 

March.— They call me March. My fiery and tempes- 
tuous disposition has led man to name me after the 
fiery little war-god. Mars. Yet, withal, I possess some 
redeeming traits of character. I melt the frost and 
snow brought upon the earth by my two elder sisters ; 
I release the brooks from their icy fetters, and send 
them on rejoicing and babbling my praise. I am the 
harbinger of Spring. 

April. — It is said that I am unstable in character, 
and changeable ; that I briug rain and snow, frost and 
thaw, alternately ; but I labor for the good of mankind. 
I revive the earth ; I unfold the green leaf, and I form 
the bud that is to unfold its petals and be perfected into a 
flower. Who shall say that April does not fulfill her 
appointed mission ? 

May. — I am called loving, laughing May. I expand 
the buds, and perfect the early flowers ; (the buds of 
which my sister's hand fashioned.) I call the happy 
birds from the sunny south, and cause them to pour 
forth strains of sweetest melody to charm the ears of 
careworn man. The children love me, and call me their 
own dear merry month of May. 

June. — I come to herald the approach of Summer. 
I spread a cai'pet of beautiful green over the valleys, 
adorn the mountain tops with lovely flowers of the per- 
fume and choicest hues. I strew the meadows with 
lilies and buttercups, and breathe soft warm zephyrs 
that ripple the smooth surface of the glassy lake, and 
bend the tops of the waving grass. Who shall say that 
the mission of June has been in vain ? 



iCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 77 

July — -/ ''.m named after Rome's gieatest Emperor, 
Julius C''3sar. The month I represent gave birth to a 
natior '^f heroes and freemen. America claims me as 
her own, for, on one of my days, the great American 
Rqmblic was born. The American people will never 
^OTget me ; for, until the end of time, the Fourth of July 
will never cease to be hailed with pride and joy. 

August. — I, too, am named after one of Rome's 
greatest Emperors, Augustus Caesar. The month I 
represent, although perhaps it can not boast of contain- 
ing the birth-day of a nation, yet I claim a high and 
noble mission. It is my mission to ripen the golden 
grain, and to prepare the harvest for the sickle of the 
reaper. Yes, the farmer loves August, for I bid him 
gather into his garner the products of his toil. 

September. — It is my mission to finish what my 
sister began. I fold the petals of the flowers, and, 
breathing my cool breath over them, bid them M'ither 
and fade. I paint the forests with gorgeous colors of 
red, 3^ellow, and green. I ripen the luscious fruit, and 
stain with delicate tints the rosy cheeks of the peach 
and apple. The golden corn I ripen for the husband- 
man. Ah, 3'es ! September, too, has her mission of 
usefulness. 

October. — It is my province to dismantle the earth 
of its robes of verdure. The delicate flowers wither and 
droop and die when they see me come. The little birds 
gather themselves into flocks, and flee away to a warmer 
clime at my approach. I breathe my cold chilling breath 
over the forests, and the leaves turn brown and sere and 
fall tumbling to the ground. October, too, has its mis- 
sion, but alas ! it is one of death. 

November. — I come forth to behold the ruin wrought 
by my sister, and behold ! all, all is dead ! The brown, 
sere leaves lie scattered here and there, or are whirled 
about by the chill Autumn winds. Mankind call me 
cold and unfeeling November, and hail me as the dread 
harbinger of frost and snow ; but such is my mission, 
and as such il must be fulfilled. 

December. — Hail, sisters ! I come to complete the 
circle of months. Mankind have branded me dark and 
gloomy December, and such I may be ; for sleet and 



78 SCHOOLDAY LIALOGUES. 

snow and cold frosty winds herald my approach. Men 
shiver and crouch beside their hearthstones where the 
fire glows brightly, when they hear my name pro- 
nounced ; but the month I represent contains the birth- 
da^' of the Saviour of the world. M}^ mission is one of 
peace ; then, though mankind shall alternately bless and 
curse us, still gentle sisters, let us join hands, and be at 
peace, and each perform her own allotted mission cheer- 
fully and in love. 

[-4ZZ join hands and sing."] 

Let loving friendship join our hearts 

In peace and love sincere ; 
Thus, while we each perform our parts, 

Shall pass the rolling year. 

\_Gurtain falls.'] 



THE NEW PREACHER. 

CHARACTERS. 

Fairman, 

GiMBLET. 

coppermouth. 

Blunt. 

Chub. 



Twister. 

Wink. 

bombasterson. 

HiGHLOOK. 

Twaddle. 



Worldly, and others. 



Scene i. — Neighbors lounging about the door of a 
country church after service. 

Twister. — Well, neighbor Wink, I obsarved you kept 
one eye on the preacher purty keen, this mornin' ; what 
do you think of him, any way ? 

Wink.— Why, the fact is, if I was to say, that is, if I 
was to mention my 'pinion, so to speak, I can't 'xactly 
say that the sarmint pleased me. Just 'tween 3^ou and 
I, and I've hearn 'nough preachin' to know, he wa'nt 
altogether what might have been expected. Takin' 
every thing into the 'count, I must say that I was dU- 
appinted in the man. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 79 

Twister. — That's just what I was going to say myself, 
Mr. Wink, but I thought I'd like to hear your opinion 
first, for you are one of the sort of folks that don't hes- 
itate to say whatever jon think. Now, Mr. Bombaster- 
son, what's your opinion ? 

BoMBASTERSON, [in a deep, pompous tone']. — Hem ! 
a-hem ! As for me, I think the young man might do to 
talk on a small scale to some school-house congregation, 
but as to preachin\ why, that isn't in him ! He couldn't 
have been heered ten rod from the church, and his Bible 
lesson sounded more like talkin' than readin'. I like 
to hear a man fire up and steam ahead from the text to 
the amen, as if he had — a — a — hem ! — as if he had 

Eairman. — Lungs like an ox, Mr. Bombasterson ? 
That is not my idea of eloquence. You have paid the 
new preacher an unintentional compliment, by saying 
his preaching and reading were like talking. I am glad 
we now have the prospect of hearing a man who has 
evidently studied the art of delivery, and has learned 
how to be natural in the pulpit, where, above every 
other place in the world, we should expect honesty of 
heart and naturalness of voice. 

CoppERMOUTH. — I don't object to his manner so much 
as his matter. I'd like to know what right a minister 
has to preach in favor of war, and to pray for the suc- 
cess of armies of aggression against our southern breth« 
ren ! I want to hear the pure Gospel when I go to 
church, and not politics. It's awful the way the pulpit 
has corrupted the people. I believe secession's a divine 
institution 

Blunt. — So is the bottomless pit a divine institution I 
I glory in the Gospel that proclaims liberty to the cap- 
tive, and loyalty to the Constitution, and I glory in the 
minister that dares to declare the whole counsel of God! 
I pray for the coming of the day when every Christian 
shall learn the blessed brotherhood of love as taught in 
the New Testament, and exemplified by our Union of 
States, and freedom of worship. Go home, Mr. Copper- 
mouth, and read the Thirteenth Chapter of Romans, 
and if 3^ou can't indorse that, then go to the Confederacy 
at once, you traitor, and hear the mock Gospel that will 
better suit yon. 



80 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Twister. — Come, brother Blunt, you know the saying, 
''Blessed are the peace-makers" 

Blunt. — Then blessed be our cannon, our swords, 
and our bayonets 

Twister. — Oh, you altogether misunderstand me ! — 
Fm loyal sir, to our country, lo3^al, sir, but 

Blunt. — Loyalty admits of no '*buts" or "if's," sir. 
Your whole heart — your whole devotion, or nothing. 

Twister. — You misunderstand me, brother Blunt — I 
only spoke of making peace between you and neighbor 
Coppermouth, for I'm afeard you are both a l-e-e-t-l-e 
excited. 

Blunt. — Well, perhaps so; for better men than either 
of us have been excited since this war began. 

Twister. — Say, friend Highlook, you are a man of 
taste ; what do you think of the new preacher ? Will 
he do ? 

Highlook \_strohing Ms moustache, and twirling his 
cane']. — Will he do ? Well, that is a mattah of gweat 
impawtance. The refawmation of our society at lawge 
depends upon the capacity of the ministah, to no incon- 
sidawable extent. I was much mawtified to behold his 
black cwavat, and also to witness him wipe the perspi- 
wation in the pulpit with a howid wed bandanna. To 
suit us, ow ministah must weah black gloves, white 
socks, and a white neck-tie, and use invawiabl}^ a white 
pocket handkerchief. Fawthamoah, his hair is a shade 
too light, and his eyes a little too keen for a placid min- 
istah of the Gospel. I shall twy, howevah, to be satisfied, 
and to jattend occassionally, when the weathah is faih, 
upon his ministwations, to encouwage the young man. 
Good mawning, gentleman. [JTe bows and retires.'] 

Twaddle. — I wish Mr. Highlook had studied for the 
ministry. I do like his beautiful address. And what 
good sense and elegant manners I What a pity that 
such splendid talent should not be used by the church 1 
I would give a handsome sum to secure the services of 
a preacher that we could be proud of. 

Chub. — Kaither perticler, friend Twaddle. For ni}'' 
part, I don't believe in eddycaten fellers to the preachin' 
business. Tlie airly apostles was picked up from their 
fishiu' seines, and sot right to work without. any book- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 81 

larnm' or polishin', and thej was first-rate preachers, so 
they was. I'm in favor of none of your college-bred 
chaps, preteudin" to know every thing, and don't know 
how to turn a furrer or split a rail, so they don't. 

r AIRMAN. — Gentlemen, it would take more than an 
angel, and less than a baboon to suit all of you. 

Worldly. — He preached up too much piety for me. 
For one, 1 don't calculate to sit still and be twitted of 
m^' sins every Sunday, and pa}' him for doin' it into the 
bargain. I left the house before he was more'n half 
done, just to let him see he daren't pitch into me. 

Tw.AJjDLE. — I heered Mr. Highlook say he heered a 
man say, who heered this 3'ouug minister preach some- 
where once, that the people thought his sermon lacked 
depth. 

[Be-enter Mr. Highlook.'] 

Highlook. — Excuse me, gentlemen, but I fawgot to 
say to you pwiah to my depawture, that it is to be fcahed 
ow young ministah lacks depth of mind, if we are to 
judge from what the people say elsewhere, where he 
has held fowth. I undahstand, fawthawmoah, that his 
discoahses have no^impwessive wohds whatevah, such 
as Jewawboam, the sou of Xebat, Nebucadnezzah, Deu- 
tewonomy, Ecclesiasticus, or any of the ancient patwi- 
arehs. 

Blunt. — Mr. Highlook, let me repeat to you for 3'our 
edification a few lines: 

*' Oh. that the mischief-making crew 
Were all reduced to one or two, 
And they were painted red or blue, 
That every one might know them." 

Highlook [highly offended']. — I shall see you again, 
sir I [ Withdraws.] 

Bllnt \_calling after him]. — If you do, you may hear 
the rest of that stanza. \_Aside.] I do get indignant, 
sometimes, at the indiscriminate criticisms on preachers 
and preaching. \_One by one the company goes away, 
until all are gone but Blunt and Gimblet.] Attend what 
church you may, you will hear, after the service, espec- 
ially in the parlor circle where neighbors visit on the 
Sabbath, all sorts of nnwarrantable opinions about the 
manner of preaching, and precious little about the sul> 
6 



82 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ject matter of the discourse, and nothing, whatever, as 
a personal self-application of the truth. But I must be 
patient, and do my duty. 

[^Starts toward home, when 'Gimblet, a silly, spong- 
ing fellow, follows him.'] 
Gimblet. — Say, Mister Blunt, I guess I'll go and 
take dinner with you to-day — 'tisn't much out of my 
way. lUxeunL] 



THE SEASONS. 

Scene 2. To be represented by fifteen girls, and one 
boy to represent March. Each season with its months 
passes along, with appropriate fruits, flowers, grain, 
etc. 

WINTER. 

I COME from the distant frozen zones, 

Where the ice ever binds, and the wind ever moans. 

Cold, chilling winds follow fast in my track ; 

All frown at my coming, and wish me back. 

The meadows I'll cover with a mantle of snow, 

Which I scatter abroad wherever I go. 

With ice I will silence the murmuring streams ; 

With clouds I will hide the sun's powerless beams. 

All nature must sleep in my chilling. embrace 

Till the arrival of Spring, when I must give place. 

M3' children are with me, my designs to fulfill. 

They may speak for themselves ; they all do my will. 

DECEMBER. 

I am the first-born of winter, yet of months am the last ; 
All rejoice at my coming, yet joy when I'm past; 
For my dark, gloomy days, and long, cheerless nights 
Are illumined by naught save the gay Christmas sights. 
I am the favorite of the girls and the boys. 
For with me come visions of Santa Claus' toys. 
*' Christmas is coming," and then you will hear 
Tlie last dying knell of the fast passing year. 
Pause, now, and think what account it will bear. 
But my mission is ended, ni}^ farewell's soon said, 
And 1 haster. to join the years that are fled. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 83 

JANUARY. 

I am proud Jamiar}^, the first of the year ; 

All rejoice at m_y coming, and joy when I'm here. 

Gladness and mirth follow close in my train, 

"A happy New Year" is heard again and again. 

M}^ visions are bright, no forebodings I know ; 

My hopes tinge all objects with fancy's bright glow. 

Fondly I linger, still longer I'd dwell. 

But I, too, must hasten to bid you farewell. 

FEBRUARY. 

As I am the third, and my da3^s being few. 

With not many words I will now trouble you. 

I am short, cold, and crusty, I ver}^ well know, 

But once in four 3"ears I kindl}^ bestow 

"A Leap Year," that ladies their husbands may choose: 

Yet I give the poor gents a chance to refuse. 

But I, too, must hasten aw^ay from your sight, 

So to all I will bid " good night ! good night !" 

CHORUS. 

We are passing away, but ere we are gone 

You will hear the shrill notes of our winter sons:. 



SPRING. 

I COME, the timid and gentle Spring, 

Sweet treasures of beauty and blossoms to bring. 

The streams I'll unlock from their fetters strong. 

And soon you will hear them murmuring along. 

The cold, chilling winds will vanish away, 

For the}^ know of my coming and will not stay. 

All nature rejoices, for soon will be seen 

The earth enrobed in its vesture of green ; 

And beautiful flowers springing every where, 

Teaching a lesson of God's provident care. 

From its distant home I call to the bird. 

And soon will its joyous song be heard. 

To the poor and the needy sweet comfort I bring, 

And all rejoice to welcome the Spring. 

But my children are waiting their gifts to bestow, 

And we'll sing you a song as away we go. 



84 SCPIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

MARCH. 

1 am bold March, the noisy, and proud ; 

Blowing- ray trumpet so long and so loud. 

Fitful and stormy, a pest and a joy, 

For all pronounce me " a troublesome boy ;" 

I care for nobody, no, not I, 

So I'll take my leave without a " good-by." 

APRIL. 

Timidly I come as my rude brother leaves ; 
His boisterous manner my spirit oft grieves ; 
He chills my fond heart, and fills it with pain, 
That my heart's dearest treasures I can not retain. 
So I weep sad tears o'er the springing flowers. 
And thus sadly vanish poor April's hours. 

MAY. 

Charming and gay comes the laughing May, 

Singing and skipping the glad hours away. 

Blooming so sweet are my beautiful flowers, 

Decking with gladness earth's loveliest bowers. 

The forests are ringing with music most sweet, 

Happiest voices our ears ever greet. 

How charming and gay around is each scene, 

Clad in its garb of beautiful green ! 

With smiles and with joy I now pass away, 

Leaving bright visions of blooming May. 

CHORUS. 

Brother and sisters, we pass along, 
And sing, as we go, our welcome song. 



SUMMER. 

I COME from a far distant Southern clime, 
Where the orange-flowers bloom and myrtles twine ; 
Where the skies ever smile over glittering seas. 
And richest perfumes are borne on each breeze. 
To the North I come with my heated breath, 
Bringing, too often, disease and death; 
Yet in my steps comes the rich golden grain, 
Luscious fruits I give you, they come in my train. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 85 

The year's bright noon-time, how pleasant it seems, 
E'en under the sun's hot, scorching beams 
M}^ children, hasten and bring your store, 
Gladdening the hearts of men once more. 

JUNE. 

I am June, and gladly I bring to you 
Mild, balmy air, and skies of blue ; 
Days of soft and hallowed light, 
Followed by a fairy, gentle night. 
Long, long days of sunniest noon, 
Mark the hours of radiant June. 

JULY. 

I am July, and close in my train 
Come the rich harvests of golden grain ; 
Berries and fruits I will bring to you 
Ere I pass away and say, " Adieu." 

AUGUST. 

August comes with its sultry days, 

Bringing rich crops of the golden maize ; 

Yet causing all to sigh for the breeze. 

Which only is found by the murmuring seas. 

The city's deserted, all flee to green fields. 

To taste of the joys which the country now yields. 

But m}^ long tedious days at length will be done, 

And I, like my sisters, must be passing along. 

CHORUS. 

Warm-hearted sisters for ever we be, 
So sing, as we go, a farewell glee. 



AUTUMN. 

I COME, grave Autumn, proud boasters to show 
That their haughtiest works will soon be laid low. 
I breathe o'er the forests, how changed they appear I 
The grass withers away as if in sadness and fear. 
I scatter the leaves from the loftiest trees. 
And gather them up with the eddying breeze. 



86 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

The songsters that warble so happj and gay, 
All hasten to flee, at my coming, away ; 
Yet there's joy in my presence, for gladly I give 
Of my richest abundance that mankind may live. 
My children are weary with the burdens they bear 
Of the rich, luscious fruits of the fast passing year. 

SEPTEMBER, 

Quiet comes the mild September, 
Bringing joys that all remember ; 
Gladdening hearts with plenteous store, 
That for all there's plenty more 
Fruit and food ; so none need fear 
Want will trouble us this year. 

OCTOBER. 

Oool October greets you here, 
With frosty breath, so pure and clear. ' 
With its days, so calm and pleasant. 
Will return the jay and pheasant. 
Dropping nuts fall thick apace, 
Gladdening many an urchin's face. 
But my sunshine must give way 
Before my sister's gloomy day. 

NOVEMBER. 

They call me " dull," and full well do I know 

I can boast but of little save of rain and snow. 

November's my name, which none will admire, 

But shrink at my coming and call for a fire. 

So quickly I'll leave, for I will not remain 

Where my presence brings naught but sadness and pain 

CHORUS. 

Sisters are we of the fading year, 

Please give us a song, our journey to cheer. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. S7 



*' LITTLE ANGELS." 

CHAEACTERS. 

Mr. and Mrs. Brown, who reside in the country. 

Mrs. Dosem. 

Peter Jehosaphat Hezekiah Dosem. 

Prtscilla Aquilla Rebecca Dosem. 

Adam Salathiel Dosem. 

Rachel Abigail Dosem. 

Ruth Sarah Dosem. 

James St. John Simon Dosem. 

SisERA Dosem. 



Scene 1. — Mrs. Brown, peeping from the window at the 
stage turning into the lane leading to her house. 

Mrs. Brown. — Good gracious me ! What have I 
done to deserve such a judgment? If there hain't the 
Dosems a coming. I should know that green silk bun- 
nit among a thousand, with them pink bows of ribbon 
onto it. Oh, deliver us ! they've got that snapping 
poodle dog of theirn, and he'll scare the cat out of her 
seven senses. And only goodness knows how many 
children there is. I can count four heads stuck out of 
the winder. Dear, dear ! what shall I do for dinner ? 
I do wish folks would sta}^ to home till they're invited. 
\_Stage stops. Mrs. Dosem alights, bearing three 
band-boxes, a carpet-bag, an umbrella, and a huge 
bouquet, and closely followed by seven children—^ 
three boys and four girls. She throws down her 
burdens, and running up to Mrs. Brown, flings 
her arms around her neck.'] 
Mrs. Dosem [with empressmenf]. — Oh ! Mrs. Brown I 
my dear, dearest Mrs. Brown ! I declare it's been an 
age sense I last sot eyes on you I I told Mr. Dosem, 
day before yesterday morning, while he was eating 
breakfast — says I, "Mr. Dosem, I must leave every thing 
and go out to Lynnham, and see dear Mrs. Brown!" 
And Mr. Dosem, he said — " Most assuredly, Lucy." 
And he's gone out to board, and we've come — ail of us ! 
The children were wild to see their dear Aunty Brown 



88 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

once more — and they're such quiet little darlings I ven- 
tured to bring them I I knew 3^ou would be delighted 
to have them. 

Mrs. B. [faintly^- — Of course. 

Mrs. D. — That's jest what I told Mr. Dosem, and he 
said, " mOst assuredly." Let me name them to 3^ou. 
It has been so long since j^ou saw the darlings that you 
may, perhaps, have forgotten their names. Peter Je- 
hosaphat Ilezekiah, you are the oldest, come here and 
kiss dear Mrs. Brown. 

Peter ^pulling the dog^s taW]. — Don't see the pint I 

Mrs. p.— The Httle angel ! He's so witty. Dr. Pill- 
work said, Avhen he was an infant, that he'd never live to 
grow up. He had too much intelligence of the brains to 
live. But I feel in hopes a merciful Providence will 
spare him to me. Adam Salathiel, you'll kiss Mrs. 
Brow^n, wont you, lammie ? 

Adam. — Shan't do it I Don't believe in kissing no- 
body but the "gals," and especially not folks with false 
teeth ! 

Mrs. D. — Did you ever ? Children will be children. 
Come, Priscilla Aquilla Rebecca — you see we took our 
children's names from the Bible. I do so dislike these 
novel-writer's names. 

Peter. — Do dry up, marm, and let's go into the 
house ; I'm hungr}^ — 1 am; I want some sweet cake. 

Mrs. B. — Yes, come in \leading the way']. 

Mrs. D. — I do hope your chambers are large and airy. 
It nearly kills me to sleep in a close, hot room. It 
affects ni}^ respitorj^ apperatus so. Dr. Pillwork says I 
should have plenty of fresh air alwaj^s. 

Miss Priscilla [an affected miss of fifteen']. — Are 
there any botanical specimens about here, Mrs. Brown ? 

Mrs. B. [with apuzzled air]. — AVell, I can't say. There 
may be, but there's never any of them been to this house, 
I guess. I hain't seed any. 

Miss Priscilla [aside']. — Heavens I what ignorance I 
I shall i)crish among such savages. 

Mrs. B. — Take oti' your things and set down, do. 

Peter [seats himself itpon a table, which upsets, and 
he goes down with it]. — Golly, that's a turntable. Take 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 89 

your hoops out of the way, Si], and give me a lift [^seats 
himself beside Priscilla on the sofa]. 

Priscilla [in dismay']. — Get up, instantly ; you'll 
ruin my dress ! Oh, dear me I what an infliction boys 
are — half-grown, uncivilized beings. Oh ! ma, do make 
him behave. He's given my nerves such a shock. If I 
could only have a cup of tea at once. 

Mrs. D. — Mercy me ! I hope you hain't going to have 
another of those nervous spells. Dear Mrs. Brown, I 
have an awful trial ; Priscilla's nerves are so out of 
kilter, I have to be as particular with her as I would 
with an infant. Get the camfire, and a little cologne, 
and a fan. And do make a cup of tea just as quick aa 
you can. I feel as if I should like a drop myself. 
\_Exit Mrs. Brown.] 

Mrs. D. — Mean, stingy old hunks ! I never would 
have come nigh her, but she's got such a nice place out 
here, and she used to be a good cook. Children, you 
must stuff yourselves up well at dinner. Country air 
gives folks an appetite. We'll stay a month, if she only 
feeds us well. It will save us forty dollars a week. 

Mrs. B. [entering^, loaded down with bottles]. — Here's 
some camfire and arnica, and some essence of pepper- 
mint, but I hain't got no cologne. 

Priscilla [throwing up her hands hysterically]. — Good 

heavens ! no cologne ! How do people manage to exist ? 

[Peter whistles Yankee Doodle, the two younger boys 

are playing horse, with the curtain-cord for reins, 

and the smaller girls p>ull hair behind the big 

rocking-chair.] 

Mrs. D. [perceiving them]. — My dearest Rachel Abi- 
gail, and my darling Buth Sarah, what are you doing ? 

Ruth [^vindictively]. — She pulled my nose and made 
up a face at me. I'll cave her head in, I will. 

Abigail. — And she spit on my dress and scratched 
ra3^ face. 

Mrs. D. — Dear little lambs I they must have their in- 
nocent plays. James St. John Simon, take your feet 
out of Mrs. Brown's work-basket, my bird. Sisera, do 
be careful how you flourish that stick around that look- 
ing-glass. There ! youVe done it ! Well, mind and not 
^et any of the glass into your precious little feet, I'm 



90 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

real sorry it's broke, Mrs. Brown ; it's such a bad sign. 
But, thank the Lord, it's only bad for the one that the 
glass belongs to, 

Priscilla [grousing up"]. — Do send those dreadful 
children out to play. They'll kill me dead if they stay 
here ! 

Mrs. D. — Yes, dears. Run right out and have a good 
time. I suppose there's plenty of room about here ? 

Mrs. B. — Do, please, children, be careful about tramp- 
ling on the beans and cabbage plants. Mr. Brown is 
dreadful particular about his garden. There'd be an 
awful time if any thing should get pulled up. 

Mrs. D. [^indignantly^. — They wouldn't hurt a fly I 
Now, I guess Priscilla and I will take a little nap while 
you get dinner ready. 

[ The children go scampering and screaming from 
the house, and Mrs. Brown shows Mrs. Dosem and 
Priscilla upstairs.'} 

Scene 2. — The dining-room. The Dosems seated at the 
table. Mrs. Brown, flushed and disconcerted, standing 
in waiting. 

Mrs. Dosem. — I see you have no coffee. I always 
take a cup of coffee with my dinner. The food relishes 
so much better. You needn't make it ver^^ strong. 
And have plenty of cream. 

Priscilla. — Pass me the bread, mother dear, if you 
please. 

Mrs. D. — My love, you must not eat any of that warm 
bread. It will injure your digestive organs. Mrs. 
Brown, have you any cold bread ? 

Mrs. B. — No ; I do not happen to have any. 

Mrs. D. — Indeed! I'm sorry. Good housekeepers 
are not often without cold bread. Well, just put this 
into cold water a minnit ; only a minnit, remember. 
Priscilla is so delicate. • 

Ruth [vociferously, brandishing knife and fork}. — 
Give me some more sugar — enough of it. I want some 
with my bread and butter. 

Abiq.iil. — And I, too! and some syrup! And give 



SCHOOL DAY DIALOGUES. 91 

me a piece of s^veet cake I And I want a three-pronged 
fork. 

James. — Ma, Peter is eating up all the preserves ; I 
shan't get a mite. Make him stop. 

Priscilla [languidly']. — Ma, I wish jou would close 
that blind ; the sun hurts my eyes. And do make 
Sisera stop drinking tea from her saucer. When will 
these children learn refinement ? 

Mrs. D. [_iiuddenly~\. — Where's Bounce? Here's just 
such a piece of steak as he likes. Where is he ? 

Peter. — In his skin. 

Mrs. D. — Don't be disrespectable, dear. What have 
you done with your sweet pet ? 

James and Adam [together']. — He's in the well. 

Pv-ETH. — He bit me for pulling his tail, and I hove 
him in. 

Mrs. D. — Good gracious I my darling in the well ! 
[Enter Mr. Broiun, in a at ate of angry excitement.'] 

Mr Brown. — What the deuce has been afoul of my 
garden ? I'd like to know if there has been a drove of 
pigs along. 

Mrs. Brown [soothingly]. — My dear Solomon 

Mr. B. — Don't " dear" me, Susan. I asked you what 
had been into the garden ? 

Mrs. B. — My dear Solomon, don't yoa see there's 
company ? 

Mr. B. — See ! Yes, and hear, too. Will you answer 
my question ? 

Mrs. B. — What has happened ? 

Mr. B. [furiously]. — You'd better ask what ain't 
happened. Somebody or other has tore all my beans 
up by the roots, and trod my potatoes into the ground, 
and tied my best rooster to the well pole. 

Peter [grinning]. — Golly ! how he cackled ! 

Mr. B. [seizing the youngster by the collar]. — Did you 
do it ? Speak, or I'll shake the breath out of ye. 

Peter. — Lemme alone. Jim and I did it to see him 
squirm. Ruth and Xab pulled up the beans. Marra, 
make him let me alone. I can't git my breath. He's 
drunk, and smells of onions. 

Priscilla [falling hack in her chair]. — Oh, heavens ! 
I shall swoon. 



92 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. B. ^excitedly']. — Oh, Solomon, dear 1 don't. IK,) 
let him alone. Don't, I beg, Solomon. 

Mr. B. — You needn't beg, none of ye. I'm mad 
enough to shake you all to pieces. All my summer's 
work destroyed by a pack of young savages. If they 
belonged to me, I'd trounce every one of 'em till they 
couldn't tell 'tother from which. 

Mrs. D. — Oh, my poor boy 1 There — he's tore Peter 
Hezekiah's collar. Good gracious ! I wish we'd stayed 
to home. 

Mr. B. — I wish to zounds you had. 

Mrs. D. — I'll leave this instant. I hain't to be abused 
in this style. M3^ angel children shan't be the victims 
of such a dreadful man. Where's my things ? 

Mr. B. — Here they are. 

Mrs. B. — Solomon, I beg of you 

Mr. B. — It's no use, Susan ; the^^ shall leave. This 
woman did not know me last summer, when I called at 
her house just at dinner time, and now I don't know 
her. My horse is harnessed, Mrs. Dosem, and I shall 
be happy to take you to the hotel. 

Mrs. D. [indignantly']. — I wont ride a step. 

Mr. B. — Walk, then. I'm willing. 

Mrs. D. \tur7iingto Mrs. Brown, with dignity']. — Good- 
by, Mrs. Brown. I pity 3'our condition with such a 
husband. I thank God that my angel children have not 
such a parient. Come, darlings, we will go. I will 
send for our baggage. 

\_Exit the Doaems, en maiise. Mr. Brown whidles 
the Bogue''s March.] 



THE YOUNG STATESMAN. 

Child. — Mamma, don't you think I would make a 
good statesman ? 

Mamma. — ^What makes you think so, nay child? 

C. — Why, phrenologists think I am gifted in the art 
of governn\ent, and that I am bound to make a good 
lawyer. 



SCHOOLDAY PTALOGtJES. 98 

M. — Does it generally follow that good lawyers mako 
good statesmen ? 

C. — Yes, as a general rule they do. 

M. — But what are jowr own views of a good stales- 
man ? 

C. — Well, mamma, I suppose a good statesman is one 
who understands the constitution of our country, is well 
versed in the history of our own and foreign nations, so 
that he can judge what is best suited to the wants of 
the people he represents. 

M. — Are these all the qualifications that are necessary 
to make a good statesman ? 

C. — Well, he ought to be a good orator that he might 
be able to plead his cause in such a way as to excite the 
feeliugs. and awaken love, pity, or hatred, as best suited 
his subject. 

M. — But are there no other qualifications of a higher 
order necessary ? 

C — Oh, 3'es ! he ought to have a good classical edu- 
cation. 

M. — My boy, I do not depreciate the merits of a 
classical education, yet I do not think it absolutely ne- 
cessary. 

C. — Now, now, mamma, you are caught. Recollect 
how often you have told me that Moses was the greatest 
statesman the world ever saw, and you know " he was 
learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and was 
might}" in words and in deeds.'' 

M. — Very true, my boy ; but was it his learning that 
made him such a great man ? 

C. — Well, mamma, I can only say with the inspired 
penman, that he was learned in all the wisdom of the 
Egyptians, and I suppose he wished us to understand 
that he was qualified for his office, and that it was 
learning that made him so. 

M. — My beloved boy, the same inspired penman tells 
us he was not an orator. Aaron, his brother, had to be 
his spokesman ; so you see his learning did not fully 
qualify him for his office. 

C. — Then, mamma, it must have been his wisdom. 

M — But where did he get that wisdom ? 



94 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

C. — Why, mamma, you know he was educated in the 
conrt 01 King Pharoah. 

M. — Ah, my boy! your last answer forces a sigh 
from the heart, and a tear from the eye of your beloved 
mother. 

C. — Not for all the world would I bring a cloud over 
the sunshine of your happy face. You are all the world 
to me. What in my answer makes you look so grave ? 

M. — Oh, my beloved boy I I know you would not 
willingly grieve your mother, but — has her boy yet to 
learn that "the wisdom of this world is foolishness with 
God ?" 

C. — Then, mamma, you think the Egyptians were not 
wise. 

M. — How could they be wise, when they knew not 
God ; for the wisdom of this world without the knowl- 
edge of God makes a man so high-minded and so full 
of self, that he would break a world to pieces to make a 
stool to sit on. 

C. — Mamma, where did he get his wisdom ? 

M. — Certainly not from his classical education, for 
the inspired penman tells us, that every good gift comes 
from above, " and that the fear of the Lord is the begin- 
ning of wisdom." 

C. — Thank you, my own dear mamma; you have 
brought me to see that if a man is to be truly great, he 
must be truly good. 

M. — Yes, my darling child, you have answered well 
at last. 

C. — But where, mamma, in all the whole world will 
you find a man like Moses, who will stand up before a 
congress or parliament, and spread out his hands 
toward heaven, and speak and pray and plead with the 
Lord, as he did? — why the members of the house would 
say he was mad. 

M. — Yes, my boy, they might even go as far. as the 
Israelites did with Moses, when they were " commanded 
to stone him with stones." 

C. — Oh, surely, mamma, they would not do so 1 

M. — I do not mean that in the nineteenth century any 
learned body of men would do so, but you know, my be- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 95 

loved boy, that hard words and cold looks fall as heavy 
upon a good man's heart as stones upon his flesh. 

C. — Well, mamma, I see what you wish ; is it not that 
every statesman should do like Moses ? spread every 
knotty question before the Lord, and never, never to 
trust his own wisdom in order that he may be just and 
wise : and then, like Joseph, his words will have power, 
and his way will prosper. 

M. — Yes, my boy, you are now beginning to under- 
stand your mother's views of a '' good statesman." 



TWO WAYS OF LIFE. 

Scene, a forest. An aged peasant is discovered, binding 
up a bundle of faggots. Enter a stranger, in a splendid 
military dress. Me looks around as if bewildered, ob- 
serves the woodsman, and speaks. 

Stranger. — Good-evening, venerable father I will you 
direct me, of your courtesy, the nearest way to the cas- 
tle of Konigstein ? 

Peasant \^who does not perceive the stranger^. — I must 
be going ; little Eva will be on her way to meet me. 
[_He rises."] 

Stranger. — I say! Good father I Are you deaf? 

Peasant. — I beg your pardon, my lord. Good-even- 
ing, my noble gentleman. 

Stranger. — Good-evening. Will you guide a belated 
traveler toward the castle of Konigstein ? 

Peasant. — The road lies beside the door of my cot- 
tage, and I am this moment going thither. Come with 
me, my lord, and if you will do us the pleasure to enter 
ouv humble dwelling, my Marie will be proud to offer 
you apples from our orchard, and the best of cheese and 
butter from her dairy. 

Stranger. — Thanks I And I, in return, will bestow 
this broad piece of gold upon your little Eva, as a keep- 
sake. 



96 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Peasant [^aside']. — He knows Eva's name. A gold 
eagle of the grand duke. [_AIoud.'] You must be very 
rich, my noble lord ? 

Stranger. — Yes, my good frien^; my cool bead, and 
my good sword, have brought me wealth and honor. 
And yet, / played beside a peasant's hut in my days of 
childhood, like your little Eva. 

Peasant. — And now, my honorable gentleman ! 

Stranger. — And now. — The histor}- of your country, 
for the last ten years, is but the record of my deeds — I 
am the emperor ! 

Peasant. — And what may that be, my gracious lord ? 
It is, perhaps, one of the officers of the grand duke ? 

Stranger. — Is it possible ! And this is the fame I've 
fought and struggled for ? No, old man ! I am the mas- 
ter of the grand duke ! Have you not heard that he has 
been driven from his dominions, and forced to take 
refuge in America ? 

Peasant. — No, my lord ; I had not heard of that. So 
the poor old duke is gone ! He must he about my age 
I've heard my mother sa}^ the joy-bells were ringing for 
his birth the morning I was christened. It must be a 
sad tiling, to be driven from one's home and country in 
one's old age, my lord emperor ! 

Stranger. — Yes. But we will not speak of that. 
What have you been doing these ten 3'ears past, not to 
have heard of these great eveirts which have been going 
on around you ? 

Peasant. — I? I have ploughed and sown the few 
acres my father left me ; reaped and gathered in my 
scanty harvests. I have seen my fair daughter Lena 
grow up, in innocence and goodness, beside our humble 
hearth, and leave it, wearing the roses of a bride, to 
make the happiness of another not less humble. And 
since, I have seen her laid beneath the blossoms of our 
village graveyard, in the hope of the happy resurrection 
of the just. And now, her child — our little Eva — fills her 
place in our poor hut, and my good Marie guides her 
feet in the ways of obedience and truth. 

Stranger. — And have you been hajjpy in this quiet 
life, old man ? 

I*easant. — Why not, my lord emperor? I have a 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 97 

cottage, dear as a lifetime's home can be. I have the 
society of my faithful ^vife, my patient, noble Marie ; 
and we share between us the whole heart of our Eva — our 
winsome, prattling grandchild. I have a heart at peace 
with all mankind, and sure and precious hopes for the 
.'its which is to come. 

Straxgze. — And such are the simple, homefelt joys 
my mad ambition has trampled npon ! Josephine ! now 
do I feel the justice of thy reproaches. [^Takes off his 
hat.] My good friend, it seems you, too, have been a 
sort of conqueror ? 

Peasant. — Why, yes, my lord. I have conquered 
some rocks and thorns in my rugged fields and gardens ; 
and many a rocky fault and thorny grief in my own 
heart beside. But I thank my God. this hand has never 
been stained in the blood of a fellow-man I 

Steaxgze. — I wish I could say as much I [ Takes the 
hand of the icoodsman.^ Old man, the conqueror of 
Europe exyies your felicity ! 



TOO GOOD TO ATTEXD COMMOX SCHOOL. 

CHAEACTEES. 

Tom SiiiTH. a spechnen of " Young America." 
William Steady, "I o i. i 
Lhaeles Casdid, f '^*^""""*»'^^^- 



Tom.— Halloo, BifQI which way so fast? 

William. — That is not mj name, sir. My name is 
Williara. 

Tom. — It seems to me that jou are mighty particular. 
Well, William, then — Master Williara, if that suits you 
any better — ^which way are you walking so fast this 
morning ? 

William. — Why. to school, to be sure, and I have 
but little tinie now to talk with you, for I fear I shall 
be late. 

Tom. — Pshaw I whafs the use in alwavs being so 



98 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

punctual, I'd like to know ? They don't pay you for it, 
do they ? 

William. — I do not receive money from any one, if 
that is what you mean ; but I do get well paid for being 
in season, by gaining the approbation of my teachers, 
and also by not losing any of my recitations. 

Tom. — Perhaps you can, but I can not see that a fellow 
gains so much by worrying himself about being in 
school, alwa3^s just to the minute. Why, one loses a 
good deal of fun in the street by that. Sometimes, just 
as the bell rings for school, the fire hell rings also, and 
then I like to run and see where the fire is, and how the 
machines work. You know, too, it might be our house, 
and then how bad I should feel not to be there. I think 
a boy might be excused for being a little late, at such a 
time. 

William. — I don't know about that, but I do know 
that running after engines is bad business for boys. 
They are apt to get into bad companj', and hear bad 
language, and learn bad manners in such places. Then, 
too, they are apt to get in the way, and get hurt. 

Tom. — Oh ! that's all nonsense. The bad talk and 
bad manners don't hurt me ; and as to getting in the 
way, I have helped to put out a good many fires. I can 
help draw a machine, and work it, too. Why, some of 
us boys '' stole a march" on the engine company the 
other night, got out the machine, and worked it all by 
ourselves. 

William. — I grant you are rather smart — Swift by 
name, and swift by nature ; but you will not convince 
me that the influence of such places and company is not 
already working in your mind for ^ ill. lean see it in 
your talk now. This running about the street, when 
you should be at school, every good and wise person 
will tell you is bad business. But come, you had bettei 
go to school now. I must go. \_Starts.'] 

Tom. — Oh ! hold on a bit — don't be in such a hur. 
There is time enough yet. I am a good runner, and i». 
I start when I hear the clock begin to strike, I can get 
to my school in time. 

William. — You see I am not so aicift as you are. I 
can not stay any longer. There comes my friend Charles 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 99 

Candid — he has a vacation to-day. I must leave 3'ou 
to finish this argument with him. 

\_Exit William and enter Charles.'] 

Charles. — Good morning, Tom. 
Tom. — Good morning, Charlie. 

Charles. — I noticed you and William were having 
an earnest talk. What was the subject ? 

Tom. — Oh, his hobby — school and punctuality.' 

Charles. — I hope you did not disagree with him on 
that. 

Tom. — Yes, I did. I go for the largest liberty, 3'et I 
am an advocate for attending school when it suits my 
convenience. He thinks I am a little reprobate, just 
because I like to be free, and run with the fire engine 
sometimes, instead of being at school just to the minute 
every day. I expect he takes his seat just at nine 
o'clock, and looks as demure as a little priest, and 
thinks he is very good. 

Charles. — Well, sir, do you expect to get to school 
this morning ? If you do, I will not detain you. 

Tom. — Oh, I'm in no hurry. I am going down to the 
depot, before I go to school, to see the trains come in. 
Don't we boys have good times jumping on the cars, 
riding a little, and then jumping off again ? 

Charles. — As to that I can not say. I never tried 
it. I expect you will get your head or limbs broken 
yet. 

Tom. — Pshaw ! I am not afraid of that. I can jumj) 
like a streak of lightning. But I see by your eye jon 
are not pleased with my talk. You look like a very 
clever chap. Where do you go to school ? 

Charles. — To the Union school. 

Tom. — Why, that's a free school, is it not? 

Charles. — Yes; what of that? 

Tom. — Mother says she would not let me go to a free 
school "for all the world.''' 

Charles. — Wh}' ? 

ToM.-^There are bad bo3'S who go there. She is too 
careful of my morals for that. 

Charles. — Well, well! I think she must have an 
eye to them, indeed, from the fruits which I see. J 



100 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

guess you need not be afraid of any you would be liable 
to meet there. There is, now and then, by the way, a 
bad boy who chances to get into a private school. 

Tom. — So father says ; and he groans not a little 
about being taxed so much for these free schools, and 
once in a while, when he gets out of patience about 
taxes, he says, "■ Hang it ! I have a good mind to send 
Tom to a free school and gain something myself." But 
mother' says, " Why, Tom go to a free school! never! 
'twould ruin the precious darling for ever!" So father 
yields — puts a new quid into his mouth and walks off 
to the store. 

Charles [laughing']. — Well, Tom, you are a pretty 
smooth talker, but to be a little more serious, I want to 
go back again to our starting point. 

Tom. — I must say I am tired of this — but let us have 
your creed and end it. 

Charles. — Well, I fully believe that a tardy boy is 
in great danger of becoming a truant, and in the end 
likely to grow up a loafer, with a fair chance of promo- 
tion at an early age, from the street school to the |.eni- 
tentiary high school, and from that, perhaps, to one of 
the state colleges, vulgarly called "State's Prison." It 
will make little difference whether he start in a free or 
select school. 

Tom [excited']. — You impudent fellow! I have a 
great mind to thrash you. 

Charles [putting his hand on Tom^s shoulder], — 
Hold on — keep quiet. This ma}^ seem severe, but 1 
speak as a friend. You may yet thank me for it. 
Promise me you will think seriously of this, and mend 
your ways, before it is too late. 

Tom [hesitatingly]. — Well, I do not know what to 

say — perhaps I will, but here comes the ten o'clock 

train — I'm off — good-by. 

Charles [alone]. — Poor boy 1 I fear he is on the 
pure road to ruin. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 101 



FIRESIDE COLLOQUY. 

Lucy. — How beautiful the world is ! The green 
earth covered with flowers — the trees laden with rich 
blossoms — the blue sky — the bright water, and the 
golden sunshine. The world is, indeed, beautiful ! and 
He who made it must be beautiful. 

William, — It is a happy world. Hark ! how the 
merr}?- birds sing, and the young lambs skip — see, how 
they gambol on the hillside. Even the trees wave, and 
the brooks ripple in gladness. The eagle, too, oh, 
how joyously he soars up to the glorious heavens I the 
bird of libert}'', the bird of America. 

Lucy. — Yes : — 

" His throne is on the mountain top ; 
His fields the boundless air ; 
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 
The skies, his dwellings are." 

William. — It is a happy world ; I see it and hear it 
all about me ; nay, I feel it, here, in the glow, the elo- 
quent glow of my own heart. He who made this great 
world must also be happy. 

Lucy. — It is a great world. Look off to the mighty 
ocean, when the storm is upon it ; to the huge mountain, 
when the thunder and the lightnings play over it ; to 
the vast forest, the interminable waste, the sun, the 
moon, and the myriads of fair stars, countless as the 
sands upon the seashore. It is a great, a magnificent 
world, and He who made it — oh, He is the perfection of 
all loveliness, all goodness, all greatness, all glori- 
ousness 1 

Frank. — What is the shape of the world, or of the 
earth ? 

William. — It is round, or nearly so ; it is what is 
called an oblate spheroid, having about twenty-three 
miles greater diameter from East to West, than from 
North to South. 

Lucy. — Yes •, you know, Frank, our little geography 
says : — 



102 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

" The world is round and like a ball, 
Seems swinging in the air ; 
A sky extends around it all, 
And stars are shining there." 

Frank.— The world round like a ball ! do you believe 
that, mother? 

Mother. — Yes ; men called navigators, have sailed 
around the world in ships, and come to the same place 
they started from — like a fl}^ walking around an apple. 

William. — That is called circumnavio-atinor. 

Lucy. — That is a very long word ; I suppose it was 
made so, because it is such a great distance around the 
world. 

William. — Luc}^ can you spell the word, and prop- 
erly divide the syllables and pronounce them as you go 
along ? 

Lucy. — Yes ; I think I can. 

William. — Well, go on. 

Lucy. — Cir-cum-nav-i-gate. Circumnavigate. 

William. — You are correct, Lucy. 

John. — How far is it around the world ? it must be a 
great distance, I think, mother. 

Mother. — It is said to be about twenty-five thousand 
miles : I believe, I am right, William, am I not ? 

William. — Yes ; and its diameter is about one third 
this distance, or about eight thousand miles. 

John. — What is that which you call diameter, Wil- 
liam ? 

William. — The distance straight through, from one 
side to the other ; just as I run this knitting-needle 
through this apple — thus. 

Frank. — William, how does any person know how 
far it is through the earth?. no one has ever went 
through to measure it, I guess. 

William. — True, Frank ; no person has ever actually 
measured it; but there is a mathematical rule that will 
find the diameter of any thing circular in form, when 
you have the circumference. 

Lucy.— What is that, William ? 

William. — If the circumference of the earth is twen- 
ty-five thousand [25,000] miles, by dividing this distance 
by the tabular number 3.1416, will give the diameter ; and 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 103 

if ilf" diameter of any circle or sphere be multiplied by 
this number, it will give you the circumfei^ence. 

Lucy. — Oh, jqs, ! and they know the distance around 
the outside; and to divide this distance b}^ three, or that 
other number you mentioned, will give the diameter. 

William. — Yes. 

Frank. — Why, William, can thej^ measure distance 
on the great ocean ? 

William. — Yes. 

Lucy. — How far is it to England, or across the 
^Ltlantic ocean ? 

William. — About three thousand [30G0] miles. 

Lucy. — And the Pacific ocean, how wide is it ? 

William. — It is called ten thousand [10,000] miles. 

Frank. — How many oceans are there on the earth? 

William. — There is said to be five oceans ; but more 
properly speaking there is but one, having dififerent 
names applied to different portions : as Pacific, Atlantic, 
Indian, Arctic, and Antarctic. 

Frank. — Why, I suppose there must be nearly as 
much water as land — how is it, William ? 

William. — A great deal more water than land ; 
three fourths of the globe is said to be water, and one 
fourth land. 

Frank. — You astonish me I 

William. — To think, too, of the tides of the ocean — 
how the water rises and falls, twice every twenty- 
four hours — the incomprehensibility of its inhabitants 
— the great leviathan, how he sports therein, and other 
interesting things connected with the ocean, the 
heavens, and the earth — often constrains me to think 
of David when he sings in the one hundred and third 
psalm — " Bless the Lord, oh, my soul : and all that is 
within me, bless his holy name." The ninety-sixth 
psalm likewise is very beautiful. 

Lucy. — 

" God moves in a mysterious way, 
His wonders to perform ; 
He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
And rides upon the storm !" 

William. — Wh}', Lucy, 3'ou seem quite poetic this 
evening ; by the way, it is said the verse or couplet you 



104 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

just now repeated, contains all the parts of speech, 
grammatically speaking, in the English language ; bat for 
my part I think there is one of the eight parts wanting. 

Lucy.— What is that ? 

William. — The interjection. 

Frank. — I wonder h(j.» many people there are in the 
world ? 

William. — It is said there are one billion [1,000,000,- 
000] persons in the world ; all of which are comprised 
In only five distinct races, called the Caucasian or 
white race ; the yellow or Mongolian ; the black or 
African race ; the brown or Malay, and the red or 
American race, called also aborigines. 

Frank. — Why, are not we of the American race ? We 
live in America, and were horn here, too. 

William. — No; our ancestors came from Europe; 
we are sometimes called Anglo-Saxon, too. Our fore- 
fathers landed at Plymouth, in Massachusetts ; a settle- 
ment was also made at Jamestown, in Virginia ; but 
those settlements were made long after Christopher 
Columbus discovered America. Yoa will observe, Frank, 
that the negroes born here in America are still called 
Africans, although they first saw the light and have 
been reared here in this country ; and it would be the 
same were the Indians to go to Europe ; they would 
still be called Indians, or "red men." 

Frank. — Were the Indians and negroes here in 
America when Columbus discovered it ? 

William. — The Indian was, but not the negro ; he 
was brought here b}^ the English when they settled at 
Jamestown, and made a slave of by them ; he was 
brought here from Africa. 

Lucy. — I have often thought that the discovery of 
America, by Columbus, was in its etfect, one of the great- 
est events that ever occurred in the world's histor}'. 

William. — Most unquestionably one of the greatest 
events that has occurred, since the advent of our Saviour 
Jesus Christ into our world, has been the discoveiy of the 
AVestern Continent — great in a variety of ways; promi- 
nent among which is the great goodness of God in open- 
ing a way or outlet, for the pG0i)le of the over-populated 
countries of the Eastern Hemisphere ; a land, too, where 
monarchy and despotism in the affairs of government find 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 105 

no favor. To think, too, what would have been the con- 
dition of millions of people, now happ}' , prosperous and 
contented, and in this glorious land of freedom — "the land 
of the free and the home of the brave" — if the great dis« 
covery of this continent had not then or since taken place. 
But thanks to God for the realization of this sublime fact 
Another great fact, scarcel}^ less grand and stupen* 
dous, connected with the discovery of America, was the 
demonstration (of theory only heretofore) that the world 
or earth was round, or of globular shape. This proof 
has been of inestimable value to science and art ; truly, 
astronom}" and geography without this knowledge would 
be but a myth, and the celestial as well as the terrestrial 
world, an unknown and undiscoverable mysterj'. Oh I 
when I think, were it possible to obliterate all the 
attending circumstances, grandeur, goodness, greatness, 
and glory connected with this great event, "I am lost 
in wonder, love, and praise!" 

Frank, — When did Columbus discover America? 
Lucy. — In the year one thousand four hundred and 
ninety-two. Three hundred and sevent\^-four 3'ears ago. 
William. — Yes, and now we number thirty-seven 
States, and a population of over thirty-one millions in 
the United States alone ; then there is South America, 
Mexico, British America, West India Islands, etc., not 
included in this account. 

Frank. — Oh, Lucy, don't you remember that beautiful 
poem that 3'ou recited on last examination day, called 
" Three Days in the Life of Columbus ?" 

William. — I suppose he refers to that beautiful 
translation from Dela^igne, Lucy. Won't 3'ou repeat a 
passage from it, and that will conclude our pleasant 
chit-chat for this evening ? 
Lucy. — 

But hush ! he is dreaming ! — a vail on the main, 

At the distant horizon, is parted in twain. 

And now, on his dreaming eye. — rapturous sight ! 

Fresh bursts the New World from the darkness of night. 

0, vision of glory ! how dazzling it seems ! 

How glistens the verdure! how sparkle the streams ! 

How blue the far mountains ! how glad the green isles ! 

And the earth and the ocean, how dimpled with smiles . 

"Joy ! joy 1" cries Columbus, " this region is mine !" — 

Ah ! not e'en its name, wondrous dreamer, is thine. 



106 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

But lo ! his dream changes ; — a vision less bright, 
Comes to darken and banish that scene of delight, 
The gold seeking Spaniards, a merciless band, 
Assail tVie meek natives, and ravage the land. 
He sees the fair palace, the temple on fire, 
And the peaceful Cazique 'mid their ashes expire; 
He sees too, — 0, saddest, 0, mournfullest sight I — 
The crucifix gleam in the thick of the fight. 
More terrible far than the merciless steel, 
Is the uplifted cross in the red hand of Zeal. 

Again the dream changes, Columbus looks forth, 
And a bright constellation, beholds in the North. 
'Tis the herald of empire ! a people appear. 
Impatient of wrong and unconscious of fear ! 
They level the forest, — they ransack the seas, — 
Each zone finds their canvas unfurled to the breeze. 
" Hold !" tyranny cries ; but their resolute breath 
Sends back the reply, " Independence or death !" 
The ploughshare they turn to a weapon of might. 
And, defying all odds, they go forth to fight. 
They have conquered ! the people, with grateful acclaim, 
Look to Washington's guidance, from Washington's 
Behold Cincinnatus and Cato combined, [fame; — 

In his patriot heart and republican mind. 
0, type of true manhood ! What scepter or crown. 
But fades in the light of thy simy le renown? 
And lo ! by the side of the Hero, the Sage, 
In freedom's behalf sets his mark on the age; 
Whom science adoringly hails, while he wrings 
The lightning from Heaven, the scepter from kings ! 
At length, o'er Columbus slow consciousness breaks, — 
" Land ! land !" cry the sailors, " land ! land," — he awakes. 
He runs, — yes ! behold it ! — it blesseth his sight, — 
The land ! 0, dear spectacle ! transport ! delight I 



POCAHONTAS. 



SoENE.— ^ group of half a dozen Indians, and Pow- 
hatan in the foreground, with a large club in his hand. 
Captain Smith bound, hands and feet, lying with his 
head upon two stones. 
Powhatan [raising his club']. — 

Ugh ! when the wolf strays in the snare, 

The hunter has his prej' ; 
No more the wolf shall seek his lair, 
Or prowl the hunter's way. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. lOT 

[ With a scream, Pocahontas rushes before her father^ 
weeping, and throws her arms about him. PoW" 
hatan drops his club, and regards her savagely. 1 

Pocahontas. — 

Oh, father, set the white man free, 

Hold back the lifted blow ! 
Let not the lightning scathe the tree 

The winds have pinioned low. 

Powhatan [^sternly']. — 

Begone ! and get you to your mates, 

As birds flee from the storm ; 
A squaw's weak hands are useless weights 
To check the warrior's arm 1 

Pocahontas \_clinging to his right arm']. — 
These hands have plumed thy eagle crest, 

And wrought thy tufted crown I 
The dove shall flutter at thy breast 

Until thou strike it down. 
My father, spare the white brave's life, — 

I cling thine arm to speak ; 
My veins are with the same blood rife 

As that which paints thy cheek ; — 
Oh, hear her plea ! Thy daughter prays. 

And when the sachems smoke 
Around the council fire's bright blaze. 

Thine own decree revoke I 
This guiltless blood will taint the breeze 

That climbs its skyward path ; 
How shall Powhatan then appease 

Our great Manitou's wrath ? 
Powhatan. — 

The braves inclose the council fire, 

Its secrets are their own, 
You know not of Manitou's ire. 

What signs to squaws are shown ? 
Pocahontas [^vehemently']. — 

The signs that streak the cloud's black fold 

With livid, zig-zag fire, 
That make the Indian maiden bold 

To stand before her sire 1 



108 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

The signs that walk across the sky 
And through the sunset'^ gold, — 

They say the pale-face shall not die, 
That I thine arm shall hold. 

Powhatan hears the young squaw plead, 

Will he not grant her prayer ? 
Oh, sachem, give thy daughter heed, 

And spare the captive there ! 

Powhatan. — 

Powhatan's word is like the life 

Powhatan's body holds, 
And I have sworn to sheathe my knife 
Among his scalp-skin's folds I 

\_Pointing to Smith."] 
Pocahontas ^pointing upward']. — 

The eyrie bird swoops down to prey 

Upon the tame hawk's head ; 
The white dove soars across his way — 
He tears her breast instead. 
[^She kneels by Smith'' s side, and lays her head on Ms.] 
As unto him thou would'st have dealt, 

Deal unto me the like. 
M}^ scalp shall dangle at thy belt. 
And now, my father, strike I 
Powhatan \_moved~\. — 

The Eagle will not wet his beak 

In his own nestling's blood ; 
Powhatan hears his daughter speak, 
And w^hat she says is good. 

[^Regarding her proudly."] 
The Eagle's spirit lives in thee. 
Thou hast his dauntless eye ! 

[ To his attendants,, haughtily.] 
Unbind and set the captive free. 
The pale-face shall not die I 
[^ He folds his arms while they unbind Captain Smithy 
who kneels to kiss the princesses hand.] 
[ Curtain falls.] 



S^HOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 109 



BE VUTY OF FACE AND BEAUTY OF SOUL ; 
OR, WHAT I WOULD BE. 

CHARACTEES. 

JuLMNA, a gay yoang girl. -^£^-:^i---'^~'--t 

Chr BTOPHER, Juliana's brother, who would be a wit. 

Mart, would be a genius. - 

liizziE, a sedate young lady who strives to be, and to do good. 



[All seated together on a veranda, the girls examining a print 
of Cleopatra, while the young man is engaged in reading.] 



Juliana [^still gazing on the picture^. — Queen of won- 
drous beauty ! it's no marvel that kings and princes, 
priests and generals, bowed at her shrine, and were 
made captives to her fascinations. I would give all the 
world to be as beautiful. 

Chris, [^without raising his eyes from his hook']. — 
'* Handsome is that handsome does," my fair sis. 

Juliana. — No one asked you to speak. Boys are 
always interfering ; and then you need not say any 
thing, for you know you had much rather be seen in 
the street with handsome girls than homely ones. 

Chris. — And for a ver}^ good reason, pretty one. 
Being a truly affectionate brother, I, of course, shotild 
prefer the society of such as would remind me of " The 
girl I left behind me," at home. Besides plain looking 
girls are more generally sensible. [ Winking to Lizzie.] 
And sensible girls would not be seen walking with me. 

Juliana [in an offended tone]. — Talk as much as 
you please about sense, I know, and you know, too, 
that beauty is more thought of than any thing else. The 
high and low, learned and illiterate, young and old, 
rich and poor, all bow to the sceptre of Beautj^ Even 
King Solomon, the wisest man that ever ruled a king- 
dom, wrote a great deal on the subject. 

Chris. — Ahem! so he did, little one. " Favor is de- 
ceitful, and beauty is vain ; but a woman that feareth 
the Lord, she shall he praised," so said King — 
S-o-l-o-m-o-n. 



110 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Juliana [with spirit]. — I wish father would make 
you go out to work with Patrick ; the house is no place 
for boys. 

Chris, [laughing']. — Just so, I thought, petite Nan- 
nie, so I came out here to sit and take the air. Besides, 
mother tells me, that "the society of iutelligent and 
refined young ladies, improves a verdant lad more than 
any thing else," so I am trying its efl[*ect, and think I 
can perceive an improvement. But girls [addressing 
Mary and Lizzie], why don't you speak ? The veranda 
is open for discussion. 

Juliana. — I suppose the3^'re afraid of having 3^ou. for 
an opponent. Of course, 3'ou would be. The phrenolo- 
gist said: "j^ou were always on the contrarj^ side," and 
he spoke the truth then 

Chris, [interrupting]. — If he didn't when he said 
your bump of vanity was plus seven. 

Juliana. — You don't give the girls an 3^ chance to 
speak. Come, Mar3% please tell us what 3'OU would 
rather be ; and Lizzie, too. I'll keep still, and as for 
Chris, he^s improved so much, there'll be no danger of 
3'our being interrupted b3^ him. 

Mary [laughing]. — We all know Lizzie delights in 
doing good more than anything else, (wish I could say 
the same of m3'self,) butlthoughtit was generall3^ known 
that genius was my hobby. I almost worship genius 
wherever found, and would give the best half of the 
world to be a genius of some kind — either a poet, artist, 
or a celebrated vocalist. Wh3', I've almost a holy rever- 
ence for every word Lord Brvon has uttered (despite 
his faults and follies). Then there's Charlotte Bronte, 
Kate Ha3'es, and our own Hatt3^ Hosmer. [A pause.] 

Lizzie. — Yes, dear Mary, we need not go to the Old 
World for fine specimens of genius, while our glorious 
Whittier lives (Freedom's noblest poet), and hewilllive 
for evermore ; for the good and true never die. Their 
influence is as lasting as time, their "thoughts that 
breathe, and words that burn" are immortal. 

Mary. — That is true, Lizzie ; Whittier's genius is a 
noble one. Then there is our own " Anna Dickinson," 
of whose talent, virtues, and genius we may be justly 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Ill 

proud, and in point of physical beauty I think she will 
not suffer in comparison with Egypt's vaunted queen. 

Juliana. — That's just what I say. Geniuses are 
always beautiful. 

Chris, [^shutting his book and jumping up']. — If I may 
be allowed to speak 

Mary and Lizzie [speaking at once and laughing'].-^ 
Certainly, ''the veranda is open to discussion." 

Chris. — I presume you all accord to Dr. Watts 
great genius ? 

Girls [in one breatK]. — Yes, we do. 

Chris. — And have heard the story about his physical 
deformity ? 

Juliana. — No! 

Lizzie. — What is it ? 

Mary. — Please tell us. 

Chris. — He was a small, plain-faced, illy-formed man, 
and, at one time, was in company, among whom were 
some strangers, and he was pointed out to one of them 
as " the author, Dr. Watts." When the stranger ex- 
claimed, in astonishment, " What ! that the great Dr. 
Watts! That little, insignificant man I" Whereat, the 
doctor drew himself up, and with upraised arms, re- 
peated slowly and distinctly, these impromptu lines : 
" Were I so tall as to reach the pole, 
And clasp the heavens with a span, 
I must be measured by my soul, 

The mind is the standard of the man." 

And that's what I call genuine wit. 

Lizzie. — Coupled with true greatness, Christopher. 

Juliana. — Yes ; Chris, is always harping upon wit. 
Artemus Ward is his hero. [Laughiiig.] 

Chris. — I never shall have for my heroine an in/am" 
ous woman. Though she be as beautiful as an angel, I 
should know 'twas a " fallen one." [With emphasis.] 

Mary. — We must give to every one his just due. 
Cleopatra was talented and highly accomplished, as well 
as beautiful in person — and 'tis for that I admire her — . 
her rare gifts of intellect. What say you, Lizzie, to 
that? 

Lizzie. — I am reminded at this moment, of words 
Uttered by a little boy. He had heard read *' Byron's 



112 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Address to the Ocean," when he turned to his mother, 
and said, "It is grand, it is beautiful, mother, but 
there's no God in it." And I would that all lovers of 
literature were as discerning in regard to the excellencies 
and defects of the authors the}^ read, as was that little 
boy. There should be an evident aim to benefit, as well 
as to please the imagination of the reader ; as a friend 
remarked the other evening upon the writings of T. S. 
Arthur, that, " though there was a sameness in his 
stories, still she liked them, for he seemed to have an 
aim, and that was what she wanted to see in a writer." 
And I think it may be said of that excellent writer, as 
was said of one in former years, that "he never wrote 
one line which, when dj'ing, he would wish to blot out." 
We should live to do good. 

Chris. — You express my sentiments exactly, if I am 
a harum-scarum youth ; but it's my opinion the more 
wit one possesseth, the more good he can accomplish. 

Mary. — I indorse Lizzie's sentiments, too, and I 
don't know who can "do good," if a real genius can't. 
But they're not always good. 

Juliana. — Well, I'm not going to give up beat, with- 
out one word more. What's the first question asked 
when a stranger's name is introduced ? Isn't it " how 
does he look?" "is she, or he, handsome?" etc. 

Chris. — With all due respect for the opinion of my 
sister, I must say no ; who would ever think of asking 
if N. P. Willis and Professor Longfellow were pretty 
men [in a depreciating tone'] ? We all know they have 
beautiful souls, and Whittier says, the " Good are 
always beautiful." [I believe it is Whittier.] Mary 
must correct me if I'm wrong. [3Iary nods assent.'] I 
had much rather see a plain house well furnished, than 
to see a splendid structure unfurnished, or but poorly 
furnished. Who would want to stand out of doors all 
the time to look at the outside of a house ? I should 
want to enter into the inner sanctuary, and find some- 
thing on which to feast my soul. You see I'm getting 
sentimental [humorously]. Well, it's all the effects 
of the company I've been in, but [looking at his watch'] 
the hour for my recitation is near, and I must leave, 
Ihouah v'ith reluctance, for Lm convinced mother is 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 113 

about right in regard to her opinion of society. [And 
wishing the girls a very pleasant afternoon, bows, and 
retires.'] 

Lizzie. — I think, Julie, you are not altogether in 
fault. We are too apt to inquire how a person looks. 
But I think it's more a habit we have fallen into, than a 
fixed principle, though we all like to see a fine face and 
form. But if there is not a corresponding beauty of 
mind and soul, we are sadly disappointed. There 
occurs to memory one, of whom I never heard the 
question asked, "how did she look?" 'Tis the sainted 
Mar}^ Lj'on ; we each know of her self-sacrifice, devotion 
to her calling, and the great good she accomplished. 
And I am sure that either of you would rather have the 
same said of you, when you've passed away from earth, 
than that you were merely a great genius, or a celebrated 
beauty ? 

Mary. — Yes, Lizzie, I would. 

Juliana. — I suppose so, if there could be but one thing 
said of me. 

Lizzie. — "For the eye .Tftd cheek will fade, 
Mary [rpp6a/.s].— Beauty owns immortal grace ; 
Lizzie. — Throned she sits w thin the soul, 
Mary. — That is beauty^s dwelling-place.^^ 
Lizzie. — Yes ; the form so admired to-day for its 
comeliness, will in a few years decay and moulder in the 

dust; "but the soul, immortal as its sire " 

Mary and Lizzie [in concert']. — ''Shall never die.''^ 
Lizzie. — Then, since all of earth must perish, may we 
each strive to possess what never fades — the beauty of 
the soul. [^Scene closes.] 



ITNCLE ZEKE'S OPlNlOi^I 

CHAEACTERS. 

Professor. Tp:achkr. Patriot. Poet. 

Uncle Zeke (an old fashioned farmer quite aged). 
Seth Spriggins, a Green Mountaineer. 

Uncle 'Zeke. [sitting apparently in deep reflection, 
commencr^ talking]. — Well, I havn't got much longer 
S 



114 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to live, and I don't care. There's nothin' much worth 
livin' for in this world now, the wa}^ things is goin'. 
This country my father fought and bled and died for, 
on Bunker's Hill, is no longer the happ}^, harmonious 
republic they then established ; but a great, over-grown, 
sickl}' thing, havin' within itself the elements of its own 
destruction. Ever since I heard the Charter Oak had 
fell, I have knowed its doom was sealed. Alas ! it is 
droopin', witherin', dyin'. It is torn limb from limb by 
internal factions ; its best friends is its greatest enemies. 

Patriot. — What is the matter, Uncle Zeke, that you 
should be letting off your superabundant steam in that 
fashion ? You, one of our best men, the son of that 
brave little band that shed their blood so freeh^ and 
gave our nation the deathless name it then acquired ; 
you, sir, to turn recreant to the principles they there 
defended ; you, who stood by her in her adversity, to 
forsake her in her prosperity, when she stands the 
pride of the continent, the chief luminar}^ of the world. 
Nobly did her sons establish her name ! nobly have 
their sons protected and improved their patrimony ! 

Teacher. — Yes, nobly ! and in what way more nobly 
than in designing and perfecting the admirable S3'stem 
of common schools we possess — the secret of our pros- 
perity, the talisman of our success. 

Uncle Zeke. — There you have it ! Common schools. 
Common humbugs! Instead of havin' schools to larn 
the boys readin', ritin' and siferin' and such like, that 
'11 be some good to 'em, they larn 'em nateral flosity 
and watermology and sintacks, and I don't know what 
kind o' nonsense, what is no manner o' use to 'em, 'cause 
nobody understands it but them college-bred milk-sops 
that come among honest people and pertend to teach, 
and then run awa}^ with the old folkses' moue}'', and the 
bo3^s' brains, and the gals' hearts, and then chuckle and ' 
shake their bony sides over their victories. 

Professor. — How absurdl}^ you talk, uncle ! Every 
one admires our superior system of education; it is one 
of our great national institutions which have won for 
us a deathless reputation among the nations of tne 
earth. Take awa}'' our common schools, and j^ou 
deprive us of one of the richest blessings we enjoy; 



SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. ~ 115 

the very life-blood of our prosperity ; the principles for 
which our forefathers fought, and the sweet, rosy- 
cheeked maidens of seventy-six taxed their energies to 
secure. 

Seth Sprtggins. — My Arcles ! Maidens of seventy- 
six ! Well, if ever I heard wimmen as old as that called 
maidens afore ! I wonder when yeou'd call 'em wimmen. 
When 'Squire Dorgwood, from Orange county married 
oM Sall}^ Stubbs daown to Bennington, nobody called 
her a gal ; every body called her an old woman, and 
she was only seventy-tew, that was [^counting his Jingt.rs'] 
four year 3'ounger than your maidens, tew. Her face 
was as wrinkled as a dried apple, and abeout as rosy. 

Patriot. — Astonishing I Astonishing ! ! that one of 
our free and enlightened Americans, in '62 should not 
revere the very figures that express "16, saying nothing 
of the idea of failing to recognize the plain mention of 
an era rife with so man}^ associations so dear, so 
thrilling, so exalting to every member of our gloiious 
Union. 

Poet. — 

Let her banners flutter proudly 

On every flagstaff, spire, and tower ; 
Let her statesmen discant loudly 

On her greatness, honor, power ; 
Let true hearts with ardor burning 

Strive her virtues to increase ; 
And while others war are learning 

Teach her children love and peace. 

Uncle Zeke. — Sickenin'love pieces are plenty enough 
now, I calkelate. You can't take up a paper, nor book, 
nor nothin' without it's full of love pieces ; and afore 
children is big enough to have nateral love feelins, they 
get their heads so full of this love-nonsense, they never 
have none of the nateral love feelins at all. The love 
them books tells about is no more like love than the 
hooped flyaways we see now-a-days is like the neat, 
pretty, slim, red-faced gals that I used to court when 
I was a young chap. 

Teacher. — Oh, Uncle 1 you are getting crazy. Think- 
ing about your old courting daj^s has bewildered you. 
We are not speaking of love pieces, but of love and 



116 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 

peace. Peace, freedom from war, rest; not piece m 
part. 

Uncle Zeke. — Oh, dear, ens ! That's all, is it ? 

Teacher. — Thafs alL We know there is moch trash 
published ; but we ean^t stop that withontT suppressing 
profitable literature, also; and all we can do is to 
eouDteract its iufluence hy diffusing morality, religion, 
and science. 

Phofeeboel — Morality and religion arc the effectiise 
agents. Science, the root from which thej derive their 
support. Science has dethroned heathenism in many 
cases. It is driving superstition before it, and will 
eventually prostmte it to rise no more. The lightning 
which our ancestors looked upon in dismay as it flashed 
from cloud to cloud, has been brought from its sublime 
throne, by the hand of science, and is now one of man's 
must useful and obedient ser%'ants. The Tapor which 
arises from heated water, which, in olden times was 
looked upon only as a curiosity as it dashed the lid 
from the caldron in which it was boiling, is now the 
motive power that impels us across the ocean in splendid 
palaces, or hurls us over the country with electric 
Bi>eed. The planetary system, which was regarded with 
wonder and dread by the ancients, who worshiped its 
various members as deities, is now only a vast concourse 
of worlds rolling through the immensity of space. 
Science has done all this, and yet you despise iL it is 
the centre of gravity around wMch our country revolves ; 
the very essence of its existence. 

Uncle Zeke. — 1 guess, old chap, youH have to preach 
a longer sarmint than that afore you make this old 
child believe that 'are nonsense. With all your lamin' 
I don't believe you'll get one inch nearder the stars 
than I will, or stanza flash of lightnin' a fiit longer after 
it hits you. 

Patriot. — That may all be so, uncle, but don^t say 
any thing more against our Union. Let us rapidly 
review her progress since she came into existence. 
Then she consisted of thirteen little stars on her flag ; 
now that cluster has multiplied and increased till a fiery 
constellat ion of thirty-seven blazes amid its silken folds, 
'jesides territories almost boundless that have no repie- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 117 

eentation there. Empires mav cramble ; kingdoms may 
fall ; tyranny spring up, flourish its little hour, and then 
fall to the ground ; but our republic must flourish and 
increase while time and space endure. 

PlET.— 

Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones. 

Seth. — Who knows bnt it was time shook aour stable 
da own ; I thought it was the wind. 

Teacher. — Xot a horse stable, but the adjectire 
stable, permanent, fixed. 

Seth. — Oum wasn't a hoss-stable nor an adjective 
stable nuther ; it was the calf stable at the back end of 
the barn. There was three calves in it, and the red one 
got killed, and the spotted one got its head onjointed, 
and its tail smashed a-most off, so it died before we found 
it the next momin'. 

Teacher. — ^I think there was one calf escaped that 
disastrous end, or you wouldn't be here to talk such 
noni?en5e. 

SzTH. — Oh, yes ! The black one didn't get hurt a-bit. 

P? :iz - ; :^, — Such ignorance as tliis individual mani- 
fr- ^ ^ T.erable; unworthy the enlightenment of the 
V rii L:ary. 

SziH. — Ei I ain't worthy this censure, I can dew 
withaout it. I don't want yeou nor your censure nuther. 

Tz :zzT, — He isnt speaking of censuring you. 

Si: : rily^. — He did say censurin', tew; I beam 

T I -^ : E z ?. , — You can say it means what you like : that's 

1 7 z ^ ^ ?. — It is useless to attempt to convince the 
■^ : : tng that is not perceptible to the 



Uncle Zeke. — Who can convince any body of any 
thing other than by their senses. If their senses isn't 
wantin' why can't you convince a dog or cat or a boss 
of any thing as well as a man. 

Professor. — By the senses we mean the faculties of 
hearing, seeing, smelling, etc. ; not intellect. 

Uncle Zeke — I don't know what inteUeck is ; but I 
know neighbor Dobson's Bill could hear and see and 



118 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

smell as well as any body, and he hadn't no sense at 
all. 

Professor. — I love to respect the aged where the 
case will admit at all : but this is too flagrant a viola- 
tion, of reason to allow respect or mildness ; it is insuf- 
ferable. 

Poet. — 

Concealed within the marble block 

The polished statue stands ; 
Yet only issues from the rock 

Beneath the sculptor's hands ; 
Just so the mind, the living mind, 

Hidden in darkness lay ; 
No light burst from its powers, confined, 

Till education cleared the way. 

Seth. — Haow mighty knowin' you think you be ! 
That rhymin' ain't notliin'. I can make better varses 
than them by a jug full. I know some a good 'eal better 
than that feller's. 

Professor. — Please recite them. 

Seth. — There ain't a sight of them ; only tew. 

Professor. — Say them then. Do you understand that? 

Seth. — Yes, easy I Well, listen 

I went daown to Cap'n Blake's 

And there I seen his darter : 
I never seen a prettier gal, 

Or one what acted smarter. 
Her eyes is like two lightnin' bugs, 

Her lips like lemon candy ; 
Her cheeks is like a robin's breast. 

And ear-rings, aint they dandy ? 

Professor. — Well done I You seem to possess some 
faculties notwithstanding. Quite a poet. 

Seth. — I don't know whether I've got any or not. 
I've got a good many things In my trunk; I guess 
there's some amongst 'em. 

Professor. — What a paragon of ignorance ; and yet 
that individual is under the influence of the tender pas- 
sion, judging from his poetic erf'usions, and probably 
contemplates entering into matrimony. 

Seth. — What sort of mone3^ ? 

Professor. — Yes I say 3'ou probably contemplate 
entering into matrimony. ^ 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. • 119 

Seth. — I daon't know exactly, but I guess I'd take 
any thing that would pass. I wonder if a body'd let 
me have a chance to earn it. 

Teacher. — Were j^ou ever at school, sir ? 

Seth. — Oh, yes ! I went to school three afternoons, 
but the first the master wasn't there, and the next he 
was drunk, and the last he kept talkin' to Kate Robbins, 
and didn't larn us nothin'. 

Uncle Zeke. — Well, I went to school a good 'eal 
when I was a boy. I went three winters day-times, and 
one, evenin', too ; and I guess that was a school. There 
was no jimnastiums and excesses there ; none of your 
new-fashioned fooleries. If the boys didn't behave, 
they got the ferrel ; and if the gals didn't carry 'em- 
selves straight, they had to stan' upon the bench till 
they felt cheap, I tell you. 

Teacher. — And that was the school system jou 
admire. What branches did you learn ? 

Uncle Zeke. — We larned readin' and ritin' and 
siferin'; and that was plenty for common folks to know. 
Ministers ort to know a little more so as to expound 
the scriptures a little ; but for boys to larn big words 
and high branches, and the gals to larn drawin, paintin', 
music, thumpin' the pianour, and pinchin' the guitar, 
instead of spinnin', weavin', nittin' stockings and makin' 
close, is the ruination of all of 'em ; and when the people 
is ruined, the nation is ruined, brag on it as you please. 

Professor. — The use of machinery has superseded 
the old-fashioned spinning-wheel and hand loom ; they 
are only relics of by-gone days. The day is fast ap- 
proaching when the buzz of the spinning-wheel, and the 
clatter of the loom shall be heard no more in our land 
for ever. The piano and guitar have taken their places, 
and our maidens may learn music, and our sons science, 
while steam performs the labor the}^ formerly were 
obliged to do. 

Teacher. — The Lj^ceum is now about to go into 
session, gentlemen. Please step into the next room. 
lUxit all but Uncle Zeke.'] 

Uncle Zeke. — Jes so, Mr. School-master, but if 
yeou'll wait till I see em in their precious mess of torn- 



120 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



flumper}'' yeou'll wait till yeou're graj^er than yeou neow 
be. [Exit Uncle Zeke, calling to John to drive around 
the team. Noise, as if the old gentleman was climbing 
into an ox-cart, and the oxen restless.^ ■ 



THE SPELLING CLASS. 



[This piece can be spoken by either sex, or by both, uy 
changing names. A large boy or girl should be selected 
as teacher.] 





PUPILS. 




^ John. 


Samuel. 


"^ Michael. 


James. 


Daniel. 


--'-JOSIAH. 


'^^^WlLLIAM. 


Joseph. 


—Oaleb. 


^ Peter. 


Henry. 


Patrick. 



Scene 1. — Pupils playing on the stage when the 
curtain rises. 

Teacher. — Now, boys, I want you to form into a 
class, and spell the lesson I assigned you. 

All the Boys. — Yes, ma'am. 

Teacher. — Peter, you may go to the head of the class 
this evening. 

Michael. — Teacher, Pat Flannigan's head. He trap- 
ped Jim Barnhill last evening. 

Caleb. — No, Pat Flannigan's not head though ; I'nj 
head, I guess. I trapped Pat at the word conglomerate 
didn't I, Josie? 

Jostah [slowly']. — I don't know, I wasn't in school 
yesterday. 

William. — Teacher, I was third last evening, and 
now Joe Davis won't let me in my place. 

Teacher. — Joseph, let William in his place. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 121 

Henry. — AVell, I wasn't foot, either, when we spelt 
last, for I marked my number on this paper, and 1 was 
fourteenth. [^Holding up the paper.'] 

Teacher [^counting the class]. — Why, you are twelfth 
now, and last evening you say you were fourteenth. 

Henry. — Well, but I wasn't foot. 

John. — Please, ma'am, Dan Lutz is pinching me. 

Teacher. — Daniel, walk to the foot of the class. 

Peter. — Teacher, shall I go head ? 

Teacher. — Yes, I told you to go there when I called 
the class up, didn't I ? 

Peter. — Yes, ma'am. 

Caleb \_as if crying]. — It's not fair. I was head. 

Teacher [holding up a stick]. — Quiet, now, or you'll 
get a good flogging. 

James. — Please, teacher, Sam Snodgrass is standing 
on one foot. 

Teacher. — Samuel, stand erect. The class will all 
pay strict attention. Peter, where is the lesson for this 
evening ? 

Peter. — On page forty-nine, lesson fourth, section 
seventeenth. 

Joseph. — John Barnhill told me, that we were to get 
the last section on page forty-eight. 

Samuel. — And Dan Lutz told me that Bill Smith 
told him that we were to get the first two sections on 
page fifty. He said that Josie Lichtenberger heard the 
teacher say so. 

Teacher. — Did you hear me saying so, Josiah ? 

JosiAH [slowlij]. — No, ma'am, 1 wasn't in school yes- 
terday. 

Teacher. — Joseph Davis has the right place. He 
will go to the head of the class, and Peter may take his 
place at the other end of the class. 

Henry. — Why! I'll be ahead after awhile, if them 
fellers keeps coming down here much more. 

Teacher. — Quiet, there. Attention all. Joseph, spell 
the first word. 

Joseph. — Teacher, I don't know what the first word is. 

Teacher. — Well, if you only have a little patience I 
will pronounce it for 3^ou. 

Caleb Thand up] — I know what the first word is. 



122 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher. — You keep quiet, until you are called upon 
to speak. The first word is commutation. Spell, Jo- 
seph. 

Joseph. — C-o-m, com, y-o-u, you, comyou, — 

Teacher. — Next. 

William [droivling']- — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, commu, 
t-a, ta, commuta, s-h-i-o-n, shun, commutation. 

Teacher. — William, you must get your lesson better 
the next time. 

AViLLiAM. — Please, ma'am, I have no book. Some- 
body stepi^ed on it, and the skin came off. 

Teacher. — The cover, you mean, don't you ? 

William. — No, ma'am, I mean the outside of the 
book, the skin. 

Teacher. — Well, what did you do with the inside of 
the book ? 

William. — Why, it looked so ugly, that one evening 
last week, as 1 went home, I threw it into the creek 
down there. 

Teacher. — You deserve a good whipping; but we 
must continue the spelling. Patrick, you spell ? 

Patrick. — Plase, mar'm and I don't know the 
w-u-r-r-d. 

Teacher. — James, spell. 

James. — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, t-a, ta, t-i-o-n, tion, 
commutation. 

Teacher. — That is right ; go up. 

James [goes vp and Williain h^ps him.2. — Teacher, 
Bill Smith tried to throAV me down. 

Teacher. — William, you will take your seat. John, 
do you spell the next word, molasses. 

John. — M-o, mo, [smacks his lips'] m-o, mo, [smacks 
them still louder'] m-o-l-e, mole [still smacking.] 

Teacher. — What is the matter ? 

John. — I can't spell that word ; it's too sweet. 

Teacher. — Josiah, you can spell it. 

JosiAH [ivhose head, has been turned in an opposite di' 
rection, now faces the teacher, and sjjells sloivly]. — S-u, 
Bu, g-a-r, gar, sugar. 

Teacher. — That is not the word. 

JosiAH [slowly]. — Why, John said it was so sweet he 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 123 

oould not possibly spell it, and I thought he meant 
sugar. 

Teacher. — I don't believe you are paying attention. 

Caleb. — Teacher, I know how to spell the word. 

Teacher. — Spell it, then. 

Caleb [^very earne.'iQ. — C-a-n,can, d-y, dy, candy. [He 
goe>: up.'] 

Teacher. — Hold on; that is not the word. Go back 
to your place. You all deserve to be punished severely 
for your neglect in preparing this lesson, and your indif- 
ference in the recitation. Let me hear you define a few 
words. Henry, what is the meaning of the word exter- 
minate ? 

Henry. — Exterminate, means that natural reflection 
subsiduary upon longitudinal molusc, when the conspi- 
cuous generality of ideas, encompass the plausibility 
consequent upon the gelatinous machinations of pneu- 
matics, during the precise admonitions of an avaricious 
duadecagon : or, in other words, the incompi-ehensible 
gyrations of antiquated logarythms, when in a state of 
lubricating gymnastics, produced from the exhilarating 
effervescence of hydraulic aspirations, flowing from the 
ambiguous castigations in the colossal amphitheatre of 
redundant asseverations, while renewing the categorical 
receptacles of an ignited concatenation. 

Teacher. — Very well done, Henr}^ ; I am pleased to 
see that you studied the lesson so well. 

Michael. — Teacher, I don't exactly understand about 
that avaricious duodecagon. 

Teacher. — Henry, please explain those words for the 
satisfaction of the class. 

Henry. — "Why, an avaricious duodecagon. simply 
means a black spotted cat with a long white tail. 

Teacher. — Now, Samuel, brighten up. and give me a 
short definition of the word procrastination. 

Samuel. — Well, the literal meaning is systematically 
that phenomena of auxiliarv conceptions, which by their 
egotistical perplexities affiliate with the aromatic plausi- 
bilities of an analytical stove-pipe, that has for its ori- 
gin the unavoidable periphery b^' which it is metamor- 
phosed into an exaggerated chrysalis of oleaginous in- 
visibility. 



124 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Teacher. — That is excellent. I knew there was some- 
thing in you, if only the right method was taken to 
extract it. The audience will readily see the import- 
ance of pupils being thoroughly conversant with Ian* 
guage, so that they will be able at all times to dissemi- 
nate that liojht amono- those around them, which shouHl 

Oct ' 

cliaracterize the enlightened era in which we live, ^^ow, 
boys, we will close the lesson for the present, hoping 
that 3^ou are all more sensibly impressed with your 
duties. Continue in the course you have commenced, 
and you will become great men and women. 
\_Boys leave in confusion.'] 



THE TWO TEACHERS. 



CHARACTERS. 

Clara, a faithful teacher, who loves the employment. 
Lizzie, one who disUkes teaching. 

Scene. A Scliool-room. Clara stands by a desk read- 
ing, while a group of little ones are preparing to 
leave. Before they go, they take an affectionate leave 
of the Teacher. 

[Lizzie enters hastily, as if she had been walking a 

long distance.'] 

Clara [^starting forivard]. — Why, good afternoon, 
Lizzie! Your school must have been out early; for 
now it is only half past four, and you teach four miles 
away. I expected you to-night, but not so soon. 

Lizzie. — I dismissed school a little after three. There ! 
you needn't look so terrified ! I guess the scholars 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 125 

were glad enough to get away. I am sure I was ! 
Oh ! it'^did. seem so good to get out in the pure, fresh 
air, away from the noise of the children. But come, 
Clara, let us dismiss such dismal things as school, 
scholars, and teaching, from our minds. Let us " drive 
dull caro away" with song. [Tahing a singing book 
and sifting doivn.'] Dear me, I'm so tired I I am glad 
there's no school to-morrow ! Let us sing, " Bain on 
the Boof " You sing alto and I will soprano [_sounding 
Jceyl 

Clara \Jio.If impatiently']. — iS'o, not now, Lizzie, 
please ; I want to talk a little while. 

Lizzie. — Well, my dear, I suppose you are going 
to lecture me. Proceed ! I'll bear all your good talk 
with the patience of a martyr. [Folding her hands 
demurely.'] 

Clara [_soherly.] — By what you said of your <rlad- 
ness to get from school, etc. etc., I am afraid [hesi- 
tating]. To come to the point, Lizzie, do you like 
to teach school? 

[The mischievous smile died out of Lizzie'' s face, as 
she arose quickly and said in a hurried tone :] 

Lizzie. — Like to teach school? What a question ! 
Clara, did you, could you, think I did? [Speaking 
slowly j Ask the little bird, that carols its free, joyous 
song on the tall tree, free to act at its own sweet will, 
ask it if it likes its prison cage as well as its covert of 
green leaves. Ask the babbling brook, which wends its 
way, singing merrily as it goes, if when imprisoned in 
the still pond, its jooor, suffering heart does not long to 
break its prison bonds and go on its way, rejoicing in 
its wild freedom. Ask the little child, sporting among 
the clover blossoms and singing birds, if it enjoj's the 
close walls of home as well as the green and flowery 
fields. I, who love freedom so dearly, and love, oh I so 
well, to muse over the lettered page, and forget the busy, 
bustling' world — how can I be content to teach school? 
[Growivg excited.] To be imprisoned in a low, dingy. 



126 SCIIOOLDAA^ DIALOGUES. 

dirty school-room, shut out from all that is beautiful 
and pleasant, and have to teach mischievous little 
witches how to read, write, and spell ! 

Clara [sjjeaking surprised]. — Why, Lizzie, how you 
talk! I am perfectly surprised; calm yourself, do ! 

Lizzie. — Well, you may be surprised, but it is so. [ 
mean just what I say. What is there pleasant about it? 
Where, in the name of common sense, are the charms? 
And then the boarding around [contemptuoudy'], I de- 
clare, it makes me sick ! 

Clara [smiling']. — A strong case, truly. Indeed I 
you are quite a lawyer. I am sorry to sa}^ that I believe 
you are in earnest, by the way your cn'Cs glow and burn. 
There is a dark side to every picture. You knew this 
before ; why then did 3'ou teach ? 

Lizzie. — Wh}^ did 3^ou say ? Why ? Why does an}'- 
one teach ? To earn money, of course. If it were not 
for that, do you think I'd stay one week longer? 

Clara. — You have much to discourage you ; so has 
every teacher. But, I hope, before long, the people will 
awake from their lethargy, and begin to act. Already a 
light has been kindled on the Hill of Science by a few, 
faithful, true, noble souls, and soon the beacor rays will 
light adown the hill, into the valley below. Tnen there 
will be more interest manifest ; we will have pleasanter 
school-rooms, and more encouragement. I am sorry your 
main object in teaching is to earn money. Although we 
could not afford to teach without recompense, 3'^et this 
should not be the main object ; but oh ! I fear it is with 
many. 

Lizzie \_scornfidJy~\. — What then should it be ? 

Clara. — Our reward consists not merely in dollars 
and cents, and not alone in an approving conscience, 
but in the pleasant smile, and the lightiiig of little 
f\ices at our coming, if we have done our duty and 
made our school-room attractive. 

Lizzie. — How can I make my old. dingy school-room 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 127 

attractive ? I guess it would need considerable re- 
modeling. 

Clara. — Not merely, my dear, in adorning it with 
flowers, evergreens, pictures and mottoes to gratify, 
please, and instruct the children ; but in your kind 
smile, and heartfelt sympathy, and interest in their 
studies, sports, joys, and sorrows. Oh I Lizzie, the 
mission of the teacher is a great and holy one, and 
woe to those who attempt it thoughtlessly. Their 
prayer ought daily to rise to him who is ready to 
help, for strength to rightly perform their numerous 
duties. They have immortal minds to sway. The in- 
fluence and example of a teacher are remembered for 
ages, aye, through all eternity. 

Lizzie. — Thank you, for your words, Clara. I have 
never thought of the subject in that light before. 

Clara. — Oh ! Lizzie, may you often think of it care- 
fully, soberly, and may success crown all your rightly 
directed efforts! But come, let us go to Mrs. Addison's. 
Supper and Lucy will be waiting for us [^srniling^ : and 
you dislike school-room and confinement so, I ought not 
to have kept you here so long. 

[_They go out together. ^ 



MEMORY AISTD HOPE. 

Scene. — A Poet — a boy in plain clothing seated at a table, 
leaning his head on his hands — pen, ink, and paper 
before him. 

Poet. — Write, write, write; I must write a p^^em, for 
thoughts come thick and fast. But why should I write? 
Memory is a haunting ghost I would fain have laid for 



128 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ever. Hope is a delusive phantom I have parted with 
for the last time. " Hope and Memory, ye were once fair, 
but are nothing to me now!" \_His head sinks lower, 
and he seems to sleep.'] 

[_Enter Hope and Memory. " Hope in a white dress 

with a wreath of white buds in her hair, and a 

bouquet of half blown flowers in her hand. 

Ilemory in dr^ss of gray or drab barege, with a 

scarf of dark blue material thrown over her head, 

half shadowing her face ; in her hand a bouquet 

of full blown roses and withering leaves. Memory 

turning to Hope, says ;] 

Memory. — Oh, my sister, look at him wrapt in deep 

thought or gentle slumber 1 He feels my influence and 

knows it not. \_She waves her flowers over him, ex- 

r^ aiming ;] 

*' Float, sweet odors, about his brow, 
And beautiful be his visions now." 

\^Hope makes a gesture for Memory to stand aside, 
approaches the Poet, and waves her flowers over 
him and says ;] 

*' Awaken, brother, and fix your gaze 
Where flowers unclose when sunshine plays." 

Poet \_starting up]. — Who are ye that come into my 
presence thus, with your sweet picture-like faces, and 
voices like those I have heard in dreams ? Speak and 
tell me ! 

Memory. — One who loves you — who watches by jour 
pillow through the still night-watches, who is with you 
in that shadowy border land between sleeping and wak- 
ing, whose hand points ever away, away to the sweet 
evening times of long ago ; one who leads you away 
from the present along the fair, bright tracks where all 
is lovely. 

Hope [^drawing nearer]. — One whose smile beams 
upon you unceasingly, whose hand beckons you on 
where a sweet May -like atmosphere enspheres gardens 
of loveliness. There flowers fade not — there no dark 
clouds hover — there the spirit floats upward with the 
song of the lark — there even the midnight is glorious 
with stars. You have no friend like me i* 

Poet. — Begone, begone I you smile to deceive me 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 129 

oh, Hope ! You show me the past, oh, Memory, only 
to make ray present more bitter ! Away, I have done 
with you both ! 

Hope. - Oh, hear me ! To-morrow 

Poet. — 'J ell me not of to-morrow. To-morrow never 



comes 



Hope. — But to-morrow is always just before you. 
Memory.— And j^esterday ever near. Oh, the many, 
many beautiful yesterdays I have to show you, lovelier 
now than when the}'' passed away. 

Poet. — They passed away — Oh, sorrowful echo,- — ^they 
passed away I 

Memory. — But thou hast kept their smiles, their 
bright beaming smiles, and all the fresh lips and cheeks 
with their glow unfaded, and such sunshiny hair, and 
eyes with their love-light more tender than of old. 
Thou wouldst not lose all these ? 
Poet. — I have lost all these. 

Memory. — Nay, not so ; they are now more near thee. 
Time and space can no longer divide ; they come in a 
moment. 

Poet. — Their shadows come. 

Memory. — But how real ! They were once thine. 
They are thine for ever. Flesh or spirit, the same. 
They are still thine. 

Poet. — I would I could forget ! 

Hope. — Listen to me, look toward the future. How 
bright, oh ! how bright ! 

Poet. — I wish not to look there. Thou canst show 
me nothing now. I know thee too well. 

Hope. — Oh ! think of the green fields, the fresh winds, 
the unfolding flowers, the springing grass — all things 
full of glad life. The songs of birds as they build their 
nests, the laugh+er of children as they play along sunny 
lanes and in green fields. 

Memory. — There are fair forms and sweet faces, 
welcoming voices, and hands kindly extended for thee, 
sunshine to gild, showers to refresh, and over alia rain- 
bow. 

Poet. — Hush, hush, hush ! [He sinks down in a chair, 
takes a pen, and writes.'] 

Hope [turning to Memory']. — What can we do for 
9 



130 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

him ? I have been his ever true friend. I bhowed him 
the same pictures long ago that thou showest him now. 
Thou knowest all thy yesterdays were once my to-mor- 
rows. 

Memory. — Aye, sweet sister, 'tis so ; and this poet is 
our special care. What strange whim has seized him 
that he would discard us both ? 

Hope. — It is with to-day he is dissatisfied. I showed 
him all while it lay in the future, and he chose it then, 
calling it fair — very fair. 

Memory [laughing']. — See, sister ! see, he writes. Oh I 
I have such a curiosity to see a poem where neither 
thou nor I shall be inwoven. 

Hope. — Be quiet. He has walked abroad in this to 
day, and has written of it now, doubtless. 

[^Poet, with an earnest face, thinking himself alone , 
reads his poem.] 

THE READEES. 
The maiden read the spring time's idyl through, 
Each day's fresh page a fairer picture showing, 
Flower-clustered branches, and nest-building birds 

And clouds in the blue sky with rose light glowing ; 
The rivulets ripple over mossy stones, 

And what the winds told to the listening leaves 
When the dew touched them, and when moonlight brought 

The sweetest dream of heaven earth e'er receives — 
The violet's passionate, pure prayer of love — 

Thrilled her heart's chords ; its sinless worshipper, 
The arbatus, fair as light, and bright as life. 

Its Eden memories told again to her. 
Yet scarcely smiled she all the while, 

Her heart was yearning toward a far-off" grave, 
Where slept her soldier youth — bitter thought ! 
These flowers he loved so may not deck his grave. 
[He pauses, clasps his hands, and sighs. Hope and 
Memory aside.] 
Hope. — I am there, and my dear poet has forgotten it. 
Memory. — And I. How blind he is I but he proceer's. 
Listen to the second verse ; see if we are exiled from 
it. [Poet proceeds.] 

The mother read the sweet-rhymed poem. 

How royally rich was every page she turned ! 
The rose was crimson with the hue of triumph, 
The stars above as freedom's watch-fires burned. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 131 

But summer winds were sighing, ever sighing ; 

And bead-Uke dew-drops rosaries were of tears, 
For Tennessee's soft winds and low-toned waters 

Blend dirge-like in the strain her spirit hears. 
There, far away, he sleeps, her gallant darling. 

Her hope, her pride, her bravest and her best — 
Her blue-eyed first-born hushed to sleep so fondly, 

It seems but yesterday night, upon her breast. 

Hope. — We were both there ! 

Memory. — Yes, hand in hand ! 

Hope. — What would that mother's heart be without 
me ? I show her country's future ! 

Memory. — And how could she spare me ? I still give 
her back her darling as I can, either as a babe or as a 
hero, beautiful, oh, how beautiful ! 

Hope. — I point upward toward him, too — lead her 
even into the glorified presence of the gentle, brave- 
hearted boy, who learned how sweet it was to die for 
one's country, ere his sun had journej^ed half way to its 
noon. But listen ! \_Poet reads on.] 

And one in manhood's prime read the proud anthem 

Of autumn, ah ! the tale was fitly told ! 
Of the bright mission in the laden orchards 

When fruit and leaves of bronze and red and gold 
Made pretty pictures under the fair heavens, 

That through the Indian summer atmosphere 
Smiled on the earth so fond ; the soul upreaches 

To meet the angels, for they seem so near ; 
And 'midst those angels one is crowned with laurel ; — 

That soldier son in Gettysburg that fell. 
And autumn winds sigh softly, " It is finished ;" 

And that fair angel whispers, " It is well !" 

\_He pausesJ] 

Memory. — Ah ! how much of that is of me I 

Hope. — How much is of me ! 

Memory. — My voice is in the autumn wind that whis- 
pers " It is finished !" 

Hope. — And mine is in the angel whisper "It is 
well." 

Memory. — And yet he knows not that I am with him 
ever. 

FoPE. — And dreams that he has bidden me farewell. 



132 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Hope and Memory [together']. — Listen I \_Poet pro* 
ceeds.] 

O'er the calm-worded eulogy of winter 

The gray-haired grandsire bent with earnest eye ; 
And one by one, like snow-flakes floating, floating, 

Came thoughts of how to hv^ and how to die. 
Oh, Life, of thee the thoughts were real, earnest; 

Oh, Death, of thee the thoughts were oalra and high ; 
Life's end and aim the Truth, our God, our Country, 

Death but the entrance to eternity. 

Hope to Memory. — Oh, sister, there we softly blend 
together I 

Memory to the Poet. — Oh, Poet, call us each again 
yonr friend I 

Poet [advancing and clasping a hand of each']. — Oh, 
yes, for ever, ever, and for ever, let your sweet smiles 
upon my pathway blend ! 



A CONTENTIOUS COMMUNITY. 

Scene. — A country school-house, in which all the voters 
of the district have assembled to discuss some interest- 
ing topic relating to school matters. 

School Director. — Will some of the gentlemen who 
have been pleased to call this meeting, be kind enough 
to state to us its object ? 

Fairplay. — Mr. Merrysoul, Brother Orthodox, and 
myself signed the notice calling this meeting, in behalf 
of our singing master, who is desirous of opening a 
school among us this winter; as the gentleman is pre- 
sent, perhaps he had better speak for himself. 

Music Teacher. — I have been desired to teach a class 
in vocal music, in this neighborhood ; and the school- 
house being the usual place of assembly, as well as the 
most convenient and central room, I applied to the 
director to obtain the use of tlie house, and was denied 
it. Knowing this to be contrary to the wishes of the 
communit^^, a number of my young friends have united 
with me in requestii»g these gentlemen to call a meet- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 133 

ing to ascertain the opinion of the majority upon the 
subject. 

School Director. — In refusing the use of the house 
for this purpose, I not only acted in accordance with 
my own convictions of right, but followed the advice of 
several of our oldest citizens, who think with me, that 
the school-house should be used for school purposes only. 

Fairplay. — This school-house, Mr. Chairman, was 
built by the community here for the accommodation 
of the wants and necessities of the neighborhood. It 
has been our cuvstom from time immemorial to hold not 
only day school, but Sunday school, singing school, and 
religious worship in the house ; and I can see no reason 
why a few persons should now seek to deprive us of our 
long-established right. 

School Director. — The long prevalence of a custom 
does not, in my opinion, prove it to be right. We have 
used the school-house long enough for such purposes ; 
it is time now to build another house to hold meetings 
in, and take care of our school-house for the use of the 
children. 

Orthodox. — That is just what we wanted to do last 
summer, when we presented a subscription paper to you, 
Mr. Chairman, and you refused to sign a cent. 

School Director. — The house you proposed to build 
did not suit my taste. It was not expensive enough. 

Merrysoul. — I believe Brother Orthodox, in his plan, 
was trying to cut his coat according to his cloth ; he 
knew it would be impossible to raise money enough to 
build a cathedral, and so he proposed to put up a plain 
church. 

Wideawake. — The church Brother Orthodox pro- 
posed building was a frame, I believe ; perhaps that 
was one reason why our worthy director did not like it, 
as he is the owner of that extensive brick-yard over 
yonder. However, the church is not built yet, and we 
want to have singing school this winter ; and I, for one, 
am in favor of having it in the school-house. 

Orthodox. — If I understand our worthy director 
aright, he would like also to exclude us from using the 
house for religious worship ? 



134 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

School Director. — I am opposed even to having 
preaching in the school-house. 

Hardshell. — I don't mind having preaching in the 
house provided the right kind of preachers are invited 
to preach there. 

Merrysoul. — I am not a member of any church; but 
for my part, I can not see why one denomination should 
be allowed the use of the house and not another. We 
all helped to build it, and I can not see why it should 
not be free for every denomination, and for singing 
school, too, as long as the property is well cared for. 

Hardshell. — Well, if it came to excluding all or ex- 
cluding none, I would allow preachers whose doctrines I 
did not approve to use the house, rather than have our 
preachers shut out from it. But this thing of singing 
schools I don't like. I shall not vote for our school- 
house being used for it ; nor will I allow my children to 
attend if these youngsters succeed in getting it up. 

Merrysoul. — Why, Brother Hardshell, you seem to 
forget that David says, " Make a joyful noise unto the 
liord." David was ver^r fond of singing, and recom- 
mends it highly to all Christians. 

Music Teacher. — I can not conceive why Brother 
Hardshell is so opposed to young folks learning to sing. 
It is, I am sure, a healthful exercise and a pleasant 
pastime. A good singing school has a favorable influ- 
ence on the morals of a community. 

Hardshell. — I never learned to sing notes, and my 
children shan't. It will only make them inattentive to 
their books at school ; and while I am losing their time 
from work to allow them to go to school three months 
in the year, I can not afford to have them waste their 
time, and divert their mind from their other studies. 

School Director. — I reckon Brother Hardshell 
thinks that it would make the boys and girls lazy, and 
might create a desire to waste their mornings and even- 
ings. If I mistake not, his children have to toe the 
scratch pretty close. 

Hardshell. — That's so, gentlemen ; if anybody lives 
■with me they have to go to work, and no mistake. If I 
give my boys six hours out of the best of every day to 
^o to school, they must work the harder between times 



/ 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 135 

and on Saturdays to pay for it, or I wont get my 
share of work out of them afore they are twent3'-one. 

TiGHTFiST. — Mr. Chairman, this is a digression. We 
had better proceed to the business on hand. I am much 
opposed to having another singing school in the house 
this winter, because they use up the wood we have to 
supply for the day school. 

Music Teacher. — I would say a word here, Mr. 
Chairman, if you please. If I remember rightly, our 
singing class furnished a cord of wood last winter, and 
only met three times before the weather set in so bad 
that we thought best to adjourn until the roads had 
settled a little. When we commenced the school again, 
our wood-pile had disappeared ; but, as it was warm 
enough to do without a fire, the class made no com- 
plaint about the matter. If we have the use of the 
house this winter, we expect to furnish all the wood we 
burn. 

TiGHTFiST. — Besides this, Mr. Chairman, our benches 
were all badl}^ broken up last winter, and, as they have 
been replaced b}" new ones, I am opposed to admitting 
these sinsrers into the house aorain. 

Merrysoul. — I happen to know something about 
that, Mr. Chairman ; for on several occasions I had to 
bring some nails and a hammer to repair the benches 
broken by the children during the day, before we could 
accommodate our class at singing school. The carpen- 
ter that Mr. Tightfist employed to fit up our school 
benches last year, did a very poor job, and the children 
soon found out its weakness. 

Mulebrain. — I don't like these musical gatherings. 
They always keep up such a singing that I can't go to 
sleep of a night for them ; and my wife says that they 
keep her and the baby awake, too. 

Obstinate. — I am of Mr. Mulebrain's opinion ; for I 
have been at his house more than once when they had 
singing over here ; and, though they did not care to go 
to sleep as early when they had visitors, I don't think 
these singers have any right to be disturbing the quiet 
of the neighborhood by singing schools, two or three 
times exery week. 

J5\a.irplay. — The truth of the matter seems to be this: 



136 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

there are a few individuals in the neighborhood who are 
opposed to singing schools, and they wish to make all 
the rest of us knuckle down to them. 

School Director. — The chief object of singing schools 
seems to be to gather the youngsters together for fun 
and social chit-chat. 

Hardshell. — And to try their horses in going to and 
from the meetings. 

Wideawake. — Perhaps Brother Hardshell forgets 
how natural it was for him to ride in a trot when he was 
young ; but one would hardly think that as long as he 
limps along with that cane in his hand he would forget 
some of his later sprees. 

Hardshell. — Now, friend Wideawake, you must not 
be too severe with an old man if he should be indiscreet 
enough to crack a whip as thoughtlessly while driving 
a pair of fractious colts as a yoke of sober oxen. 

Orthodox. — We must not be too hard, my friends, 
on Brother Hardshell. We all know that there was a 
reason for that runaway scrape ; and I hope that our 
brother will profit by the narrow escape he had and let 
^'Old Tanglelegs^^ alone hereafter. 

Hardshell. — Brother Orthodox touches a tender 
point there. I have always been used to having a drop 
at raisinojs and log rollings ; and I don't think we could 
get along without it. Mereover, we have Paul's advice 
to take a little " for our stomach's sake and for our oft 
infirmities," and the Lord knows 1 have infirmities 
enough. 

School Director. — Gentlemen, j^ou are digressing 
again. Please return to the matter under considera- 
tion. 

TiGHTFiST. — I think, at least, the law should be taken 
to prevent these youngsters from riding along the road 
in groups and frightening and running over people's 
cattle. They almost ruined a heifer for me last summer. 

F AIRPLAY. — I think it would be well if the law would 
take hold of men who have hundred-acre farms, and yet 
make a barn-yard of the public highway ; not only ob- 
structing it, but endangering the lives of peaceable citi- 
zens who may be riding by on a gentle trot, while some 
sill^' calf takes it into its head to .jross the road immedi- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 137 

ately in front of the rider, as cows and calves invariably 
do when suddenly startled by the quick movement of a 
horse. If I mistake not, a stead}^ inoffensive lad almost 
broke his neck over the heifer referred to. 

Orthodox. — Why, bless me, gentlemen, here we are 
off at a tano^ent aoain. Be calm, gentlemen. Don't let 
us get too warm. I think, perhaps, we had better de- 
cide the matter by a vote, without wasting more time 
about it. 

Several Yoices. — Question I — Question !^— Question I 

School Director. — There is no motion before us, 
gentlemen. 

Fairplat. — Mr. Chairman, I move that we grant this 
gentleman the privilege of teaching singing school in 
the school house, provided the school furnishes its own 
firewood and takes care of the property. 

Merrysoul. — I second that motion. 

School Director. — Grentlemen, j^ou have heard the 
motion. Those in favor of singing school being kept 
here, will please signify it by rising to their feet. 

[_Twelve voters rise to their feet. '\ 

School Director. — Those of the contrary opinion, 
please rise. 

\_Seven voters rise."] 

School Director. — The yeas have it. 

Hardshell. — I thought it required a two-third vote 
to carry such questions. 

School Director. — The majority rules. 

TiGHTFiST. — I want to know who is to be responsible 
for the care of the house. 

Music Teacher. — The one who has charge of the 
singing school will be responsible for the proper and 
careful use of the house and its furniture during the 
singing school. 

TiGHTFiST. — The director must demand security. 
Let him give security, and he can have the house. 

Fairplay and Merrysoul \hotli together']. — I will go 
his security. 

Hardshell. — I think, Mr. Chairman, that it is a great 
pity that old and respectable citizens like us, should be 



138 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

thus trampled upon by these young upstarts, I intend 
to lay this matter before the School Commissioner, and 
I, for one, protest against your giving up the key for 
this purpose. 

TiGHTFiST. — I also enter my protest, and more than 
this, Mr. Obstinate, Mr. Mulebrain, and myself, intend 
to form ourselves into a committee of three, to see that 
this thing does not go on — peaceably, at any rate. 

Several Yoices. — If the minority intended to rule, 
why did you not tell us so before you put the thing to 
a vote ? 

Wideawake. — Come, come, gentlemen, this will never 
do. We will soon come to blows at this rate. If we 
can not have peaceable possession of the house, we will 
not have it at all. My best room is open to you, Mr. 
Music Teacher ; and, indeed, my whole house, if it is 
needed. I shall take great pleasure in listening to and 
joining in your melodies. 

School Director. — If there is no other business 
before the meeting, we may as wejl consider ourselves 
dismissed. 

l^Exeunt Omnes.^ 



LOST AND FOUND. 

Father. — Here, Jennie, is a nice hood I found on 
^ifth Avenue ; is it not one of the best sort ? 

Jennie. — Certainly it is ; but who could have lost it ? 

Father. — I suppose we will likely find an owner ; but 
isn't it strange that any one would lose a hood ? 

Jennie. — Was it not rolled up ? 

Father. — No. 

Jennie. — Well, father, you .know it has been warm of 
late, and I suppose the lady has taken it off her head 
and been carrying it under her arm. 

Father. — Well, Jennie, take care of it, and I think I 
will advertise it. 

Jennie. — Why, father, I should think the owner would 
do that. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 139 

Father. — Well, search the papers ; perhaps it is al- 
ready in. I must go to my shop. 

[Father goes off. Jennie gets a paper. Entei 
Miss Midwell'] 

Jennie. — How do you do, Miss Midwell ? 

Miss Midwell. — Well, thank you. Are you reading 
the paper ? 

Jennie. — Yes; I just took it up. 

Miss Midwell. — Well, I will not hinder you. I just 
called to tell you Anna Wilkin wishes you to go and 
see her at her uncle's. 

Jennie. — Well ! I hope I shall be able to do so. She 
is a noble looking lady, though I feel rather bashful in 
her presence, they are so rich. 

Miss Midwell. — Oh, Jennie I don't think of the 
wealth of a person, when she is kind and sociable. 

Jennie. — Perhaps I should not ; but I wish I had a 
nice hood to wear. 

Miss Midwell — Oh ! we were down at Hunter's store 
the other daj^, and they have such beautiful ones. 
Mother could not resist the temptation, and bought one 
for Lettie. You can suit 3^ourself there, certainly ; but 
good-by, I am talking so long. 

\_Miss Midwell leaves, and father enters."] 

Father. — Any advertisement of that hood, yet? 

Jennie. — None that answers this one. I sent* for the 
other papers ; the same advertisement is in them all, but 
does not mention Fifth Avenue. 

Father — I am very desirous the owner should have 
it. 

Jennie. — Yes. But since there is no owner appears, 
suppose I wear it. Anna Wilkin sent for me to vist 
her at her uncle's, and I can't think of wearing my old 
one there. 

Father. — Put it on, Jennie, and let me see it. Is it 
a handsome one ? 

Jennie. — Oh! very. 

Father. — Is it not too handsome for you to wear ? 
You know, Jennie, that I am not rich. You do not 
know that I am in debt, and it therefore would not be 
proper for you to wea" an expensive article 



140 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Jennie. — People will think it is a present. 

Father. — Even that I should not like. We should 
dress according to our circumstances. 

Jennie. — A great many people, no richer than we are, 
wear very nice hoods. 

Father. — I am very sure, Jennie, that no one whose 
good opinion is of any value, would think better of you 
for dressing expensively. This striving to imitate others 
is no mark of a dignified person. 

Jennie. — But what are we to do with it if I do not 
wear it ? See, father I doesn't it look well ? It fits me 
exactly. 

Father. — Yes I it is very pretty ; but I wish the owner 
had it. Are you sure it is suitable for you ? 

Jennie. — Oh, father ! it is exactly what I want. Some 
good fairy sent it to me, no doubt. 

Father. — But I fear the Merchant's company that I 
expect to join, will not take me in if they see signs of 
extravagance on you. 

Jennie. — They nearly all know us, and I think will 
not be concerned about a hood. 

Father. — Well, I will not object to your wearing it, 
if you are happy in doing so. 

Jennie. — Oh 1 thank you for your consent. I'll be 
ofi" now to see Anna. IJennie goes off to Anna.~\ 

Jennie. — Good evening, Anna. 

Anna. — Quite well. I'm glad to see you, Jennie. I 
trust we will have a good talk that will be profitable 
and interesting to us both. 

Jennie. — I hope so. 

Anna. — Are you acquainted with Fanny Bloom ? 

Jennie. — Slightly. Is she not rather reserved ? 

Anna. — She is a noble girl ; at least I always thought 
her one of the most lovely girls that I know. It is a 
great pleasure to find a person acting out her own con- 
victions, and living according to her means, without 
dressing in a certain way because her neighbors do, and 
never consulting circumstances at home. 

Jennie. — Yet, one does not like to be entirely differ- 
ent from other people. We judge of others by these 
outward things. 

Anna. — I confess that my pride would take that di- 



SCHOOLDAY ]JlAL0GUE3. 141 

rection ; but whe I see vulgar people striving to be 
fashionable, looking as if they carried all their posses- 
sions on their back, having no higher aim than to dress 
gay and expensive like their neighbors, I feel like dress- 
ing in serge and hair-cloth. My soul is sick of this mean 
ambition. How little they know of the true meaning of 
life ! 

Jennie. — Y-e-s. 

Anna. — I am afraid you will think me rather severe ; 
but I feel very deeply on this subject. I long to be a 
preacher of faith. 

Jennie.— ''Of faith!" 

Anna. — Yes ; of faith in something nobler and more 
satisfying than self and this outward world. Of faith 
in a Heavenly Father who gives to each his peculiar lot 
and duties. We are spoiling the beauty of his plan by 
striAdng too much to appear as other folks do. Pure 
and simple tastes are gratified at little expense, and a 
free and loving spirit gives itself forth to cheer, to com- 
fort, and help others. 

Jennie. — Dear Anna, your soul-stirring words have 
reached my heart. Indeed, I feel all the time as though 
you were alluding to something about me. 

Anna. — I wish to give no offence by merely giving 
my opinion. 

Jennie. — Not at all. But this hood, I presume, you 
think is too costly for me ; and I, too, am convinced that 
it is. Indeed, all the gems that are on it, only make me 
discontented. 1 shall not wear it any more. 

Anna. — But why not wear it since you have it? 

Jennie. — Father found it, and I insisted on wearing 
it. But the poor reproach me for doing so, the rich 
ridicule me, and my heart condemns me. If I could 
only find the owner how gladly I would restore it ! 

Anna. — I have something to tell you, Jennie. 

Jennie. — What is it ? 

Anna. — That is my hood 

Jennie. — Yours ! 

Anna. — Yes. I knew it at once when you came. 

Jennie. — Oh, Anna ! what an angel you are ! How 
could you bear me in your presence ? How you must 
have despised me ! 



142 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Anna. — I am glad to have you here, and hope I may 
never despise you. 

Jennie. — I wish I could be as good as you are. 

Anna. — You can ; what can any of us do in this life 
but repent and strive, and look upward to One who knows 
all, and j^et does not cast us off? 

J ennie. — I do repent, I do strive. I shall look upward 
as my only hope. A little more about the hood and I 
must go. I am so glad to find the owner, it will do me 
good to see you wear it. 

Anna. — No, Jennie, don't talk about me wearing it ; 
I give it to you ; you may do what you like with it. It 
has given you pain ; perhaps in some way it may give 
you pleasure. 

Jennie. — How shall I reward you for all your kind- 
ness to me ? 

Anna. — I am rewarded in the highest way ; do not 
mention reward. 

Jennie. — If you insist on my accepting it, I think I 
will get it exchanged for something more " suitable," as 
father says. 

Anna. — Very well, just as you please. Your father 
will think well of you for doing so, no doubt. 

Jennie. — Certainly he will ; and I must tell him 
soon what you have done for me. Good-by, dear Anna. 

Anna. — Good-by, Jennie ; may we always love each 
other 1 



THE TRI-COLORS. 



[Three little girls stand hand in hand under the canopy of 
the Star Spangled Banner, each with a small flag in her hand. 
The representative of Red, to be dressed in that color, with 
-o.ses forming a wreath, and a bouquet : White and Blue, dressed 
appropriately, White with lilies in bouquet, and white flowers 
in a wreatli, and Blue, with violets.'] 



Red, White, and Blue [speaking in concert ] : — We 
are three true-hearted, loving sisters. Our fame has 
spread o\;ier the earth, and foreign nations are proud tg 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 143 

honor us. We float together, kissed b}^ the rain, sun, 
and dew, from the mast head of the ships, that sail on 
the wide, blue sea ; and we are ever welcomed and ap- 
plauded, in every clime, and by every nation. As we 
near the port, many voices shout with joy and gladness, 
and the e^'e of the home-sick weary wanderer fills with 
tears of joy and welcome. Wherever seen, the heart 
of the patriot throbs with joy, for we bring thoughts 
and memories of that land where so many true men and 
women live, and where right and justice are calmly 
conquering wrong and oppression. 

Red \_stepping forward']. — Jam found in the glowing 
western sk}^ when the sun sinks to rest, and bathes the 
tree-tops and hills with glorious golden light. I bring 
visions of cheer and plenty as I linger among the 
orchards, and paint the mellow apple, and the luscious 
peach; and I enliven the landscape in autumn with my 
tints on the leaves in the forest. But I dwell in sweet- 
est loveliness in the fragrant rose, which blushes amid 
the dark green foliage, and gladdens the heart of every 
lover of beauty ; and on the fair cheek of youth and 
health. 

White. — I float in fairy forms in the pure clouds 
which rest against the vast, blue dome above us, and 1 
hide my head with the modest lily. I am ever an em- 
blem of innocence and purity ; I enfold the beautiful 
form of the babe, whose innocent soul looks out from 
wondering ej^es on our strange world, and I drape the 
limbs of the dead, who lie cold and still in their purity. 
I fall in snowy folds around the young bride, and 
whisper to her of love, and joy. My sister [turning to 
Red'], I am with you, and we dwell together on the 
rounded cheek of }• outh. 

Blue. — Dear sisters, while the lily and rose, as 3''oui 
emblems, are blending in perfect loveliness on the fail 
cheek of j^outh, health, and beauty, I am sparkling in 
•".he ever-speaking eye, which tells its own language 
of sorrow and grief, joy and gladness. I am seen in 
the modest sweet-scented violet, which meekly bows its 
head to the world, and half hides its beauty from th<» 
careless gaze. 



144 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

[^Again, in concert, with clasped hands, and in an 

exultant, joyful tone.'] 

But we are proudest, and happiest, when all together 

we form the colors of Our Country. We dwell in the 

dear old flag, which now floats over a peaceful, loving 

people. Oh I the glorious flag, 

"Long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave." 

[ The three unite in singing.] 

'* Oh I Columbia, the gem of the ocean." 

[The effect is the prettiest if the whole school each have a 
small flag concealed under their desks, and then join in the 
song, and at each chorus, "Three cheers for the red, white, 
and blue," wave their flags.] 



ANNIE'S PARTY. 

CHARACTERS. 

• Uncle John, Annie, Fannie, Nannie, 
Dora, Flora, Faith. 

Scene. — A bevy of little girls, hands joined in a ring. 
Uncle John reading a paper. 



\^All — swinging in a circle and singing.] 

RiDsr •:Tound rosy in Uncle John's garden, 

Unc]«» John is very sick, what shall we send him ? 

[Uncle John covers his face with the paper as if 
asleep.] 

Three good wishes, three good kisses, and a slice of gingerbread. 

What shall we send it in ? 

Ill a golden saucer. 

Whom i^hall we send it by? 

By the (Tovernor's daugliter, 

Ouo that 's down last tell whom she loves best. 

All. — Oh, it's Fannie Day I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 145 

Fannie. — I don't like this play : let's play something 
else. 

Annie. — What shall we play ? I never can think of 
any thing to play when I have a party. 

Dora. — Button! 

Flora. — Dear me, that is so old ! 

Annie. — 0, I'll ask Uncle John. He knows every 
thing. Uncle John — [taking the paper from his face | 
— do tell us something to play, that's a darling ! 

Flora, Nannie. — do, please ! 

Fannie. — We ca n't think of an}- thing. 

John. — I'm very sick, Annie. 

Annie. — 0, that's too bad ! I'll call mother. 

John. — Xo need of that. There were just now a rosy 
ring of fairies out in the garden, and they promised to 
send me some beautiful presents. I presume they mil 
cure me. 

Nannie. — Dear! dear! Isn't he the funniest man you 
ever saw ? 

John. — Perhaps you don't believe it ! Such beauti- 
ful fairies — with blue ribbons, and green ribbons, and 
red ribbons, and pink ribbons — all turning ri)und and 
round. You will soon see the Governor's daughter come 
in with my presents. I 'm very fond of gingerbread. 

[All laugh.'] 

Dora. — I shall die laughing ! 

JoHN.^— Miss Dora, will you look out of the window 
and see if she's coming. 

[A knock at the door. Enter a fairy with a tray.] 

Fairy. — [Curtesying very loic.'] — The flower-fairies 
of your garden, hearing of your illness, have sent you 
this little token of their sympathy ; and in return for 
your kindness in giving water to the drooping flowers 
when they were fainting for cooling showers, they desire 
to grant you three good wishes. 

John. — It is very good of the flower-fairies to be so 
grateful, I am sure, and if I had known I was doing a 
kindness to such a beautiful young lady as yourself — 

Annie. — Fie, Uncle John I 
10 



14:6 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

John. — Excuse me, young ladies, I did not intend to 
slight you, for I am sure you are as charming as fairies, 
and to prove my regard for you, will you tell me what 
to wish for ? 

Annie. — Wish for as much gold as can be piled in this 
room. 

John. — That's modest, I'm sure. 

Nannie. — Wish to be President of the United States. 

John. — Too much honor. 

Fannie, — Wish to be the wisest man in the world. 

Dora. — Wish to be the happiest man in the world. 

Flora. — Wish for all the candy and nuts and raisins 
we can all eat. 

[ They all laugh.'] 

John. — That's nice for me. But here's a little one 
that has not spoken a word this evening. What do you 
think is the best wish in the world ? 

Faith. — Mother says we must always pray to be con- 
tented with what we have, and then we shall be happy. 
You better wish to be good and contented. 

John. — Little Faith is right. Miss Fairy, you can 
report to Queen Mab, that I wish to be very good and 
very happy; there are two wishes. I will take a basket 
of apples and candy for the third. [^Exit Fairy.] 

Annie. — What a beautiful fairy ! 

Flora. — I do hope she will send us the apples and 
candy. 

Annie. — But you must be very good, you know, Uncle 
John ; so now tell us what we can play. 

JoHN.-^How would you like to speak pieces ? 

Dora. — Wouldn't that be splendid ! 

Fannie. — What can we speak ? 

Nannie. — Any thing we know. 

Faith. — Will Uncle John speak a piece too ? 

Annie. — Of course. 

Dora. — We shan't excuse him. 

John. — I 'm very sick. 

Flora. — No, the gingerbread cured you. You can't 
play sick any more. 

John. — I will see how I feel by-and-by. Perhaps — 

DoaA.-— 0, isn't he the goodest uncle in the world ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 147 

Faith. — Annie must begin. 

[ They all sit down, and Annie comes to the front of 
the stage.'] 

Annie. — 

Uncle .Jobu is very sick. 
And what shall we send him ? 

Flora [laughing']. — not that I 

Annte. — 

There was an old woman went up in a hasket 

Seventy times as high as the moon ; 
What to do there, I could not but ask it, 

For in her hand she carried a broom. ^ 

"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I, 
" Whither, whither, whither so high ?" 
"To sweep the cobwebs from the sky, 
And I '11 be back again by-and-by." 

Dora. — That was first rate. Xow, Nannie. 
Nannie. — 

Dear sensibility, la ! , 

I heard a little lamb cry baa, 
Says I, " So you have lost your ma I" 
"Baa!" 

The little lamb, as I said so. 
Frisking about the fields did go, 
And frisking, trod upon my toe. 
"0— oh!" 

Fannie. — 

Three little mice sat down to spin^ 

Pussy passed by and she peeped in. 

*' What are you at, my fine little men ?" 

" Making coats for gentlemen." 

" Shall I come in and bite off your thread ?" 

" No, no. Miss Pussy, you '11 bite off our head.'* 

Dora. — I can't think of any thing. 
Annie. — Nonsense I I've heard you say lots of 
pretty verses. 



148 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Dora.— Shall I say " Children in the Wood?'* 

All.— 0, yes ! That 's splendid. 

Dora. — ^ 

My dears, do you know, 

That a long time ago, 

Two poor little cliildren, 

Whose names I don't know, 
Were stolen away on a fine summer's day, 
And left in a wood, so I've heard people say. 

And when it was night how sad was their plight ! 
The sun it went down, and the moon gave no light ; 
They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried, 
And the poor little things — they laid down and died. 

And when they were dead, the robins so red, 
Brought strawberry leaves and over them spread. 
And all the day long they sung them this song, 
" Poor babes in the wood ! Poor babes in the wood ! 
Ah I don't you remember the babes in the wood?" 

Annie. — Now, Uncle John. 
Dora. — Yes, you must speak now. 
Flora. — I shan't say one word till you do, and Faith 
won't. 

Faith. — No. 

John. — Then I suppose I must. 

[ Coming forward with a bashful air^ and making a 

stiff school-hoy^ s how.'] 

You'd scarce expect one of my age 
To speak in public on the stage ; 
And if I chance to fall below 
Demosthenes or Cicero, 
Don't pick me up, but let me go. 

\_Bows again and retires. All laugh.'} 

Annie. — Now, Flora. 
Flora — 

What does little birdio say 

In her nest at peep of day ? 

" Let me fly," says little birdie, 

"Mother, let me fly away." 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 149 

Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings grow stronger, 
So sh.e rests a little longer, 
Then she flies, she flies awaj. 

What does little baby say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie. 

Mother, let me fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 

Baby too, shall fly away. 



Faith. 



I want to be an angel, 

And with the angels stand, 
A crown upon my forehead, 

A harp within my hand. 
There, right before my Saviour 

So glorious and so bright, 
I'd make the sweetest music. 

And praise him day and night. 

[_All the girls come to the front of the dage with 
their right arms round each other^s waists, and 
sing the preceding stanza, and this :] 

I know I 'm weak and sinful, 

But Jesus will forgive ; 
For many little children 

Have gone to heaven to live ; 
Dear Saviour, when I languish 

And lay me down to die. 
Oh send a shining angel 

To bear me to the sky. 

Uncle John. — The apples and candj' are waiting in 
the next room. 

[Exit a??-.] 



150 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



THE RECLAIMED BROTHER; OR, THE CHAIN 
OF ROSES. 



CHARACTERS. 
Henry Barton. James Smith. Ellen Barton. 



Scene 1. — A country store-room. Henry Barton and 

James Smith discovered. 

Henry. — I'm glad you dropped in this evening, Jim. 
All the customers are gone now and we can have a nice 
little talk, all by ourselves. 

James. — I notice you have been kept very busy, and 
I suppose you are very tired by this time ; therefore I'll 
not stay long. Are you going down to singing school 
to-morrow evening ? 

Henry. — I'm afraid I can't get away. Mr. Hagan is 
in the city, and it is probable he will not be home until 
late to-morrow night. If he should get home early in 
the evening I can go. 

James. — I suppose you intend to take Lizzie Hall if 
you go ? 

Henry. — Don't know yet — I guess I can't — if you have 
any notion of going that way to the singing, go ahead ; 
I'll not be in your way. But. Jim, what do you say, 
will you have a drink of brandy ? 

James. — Brandy? No, indeed I I never drink liquor 
of any kind. I hope you ha v 'n't taken to drink. 

Henry. — Oh, no, not at all ; but I take a little some- 
times for the good of my health. 

James. — Oh ! is it possible ? Henry you are treading 
on dangerous ground. Beware I 

Henry. — Pooh, don't be alarmed ! I can take it or I 
can let it alone. Come, take a little drop, James ; I 
have a bottle of first-rate stuff behind the counter. 

James. — Well, you ma}^ keep it there 1 Don't bring 
it out on my account, for I assure you I'll not touch it. 

Henry. — Well, you needn't get crankey about it ; I 
wont insist on you. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 151 

James. — I tell you again, Henry, you are treading on 
dangerous ground. You think there is no danger, but 
I know there is. I once heard a lecturer say that when 
a young man commenced to drink he wove a chain of 
roses around him which, in time, became a chain of iron 
that could not be broken. 

Henry. — Bah ! Such talk always disgusts me. Do 
you think I hav'n't a mind of my own, and am able to 
drink or let it alone as I please ? 

James. — I acknowledge that you may be able now to 
drink or let it alone as you please : but tell me, isn't it a 
great deal easier to take it than to let it alone ? 

Henry. — -Well — yes — no, I can't say that it is. 

James. — It may be as easy now to let it alone as it is 
to take it, but if you keep on drinking the time will 
come when you can not let it alone. You will come to 
like it more and more, and the chain will be drawn tighter 
and tighter around you, and it will be impossible for you 
to break it. 

Henry. — Do hush, James ; I don't want to hear any 
sermons this evening. 

James. — I have commenced, and I want to say a few 
words more. You and I have always been good friends, 
Henry, and I hope we will be so still. Let me, there- 
fore, advise you to take warning now. If you go on in 
your course you will break your sister's heart and bring 
down your aged mother in sorrow to the grave. They 
do not know that you are in danger. They look upon 
you with pride ; but, tell me, what would they do and 
what would they say if they knew you had a bottle con- 
cealed in the store ? 

Henry. — Well, to tell the truth, I suppose they 
wouldn't like it very much. I reckon they would get 
up a little scene ; but then they are always troubling 
themselves about things that don't concern them. I 
think I am old enough to take care of myself 

James. — Well, I suppose it is useless for me to talk 
to you any further on the subject. I see you are deter- 
mined to take your own course. I will leave you ; think 
over what I have said — think of the chain of roses which 
su rrounds you now and think of the chain of iron which 
will soon surround you. Good-night. 



152 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Henry. — Hold on, Jim — don't be in a hurry. Stop 
and take a pull of brandy. 

James. — I say again, bewo,re ! Good-night. 

Henry. — Good-night. \_Exit Jamen.'] 

Henry. — Well, he's a puritanical sort of a follow. He 
thinks I'm in great danger, but I know I am not. 
There's no nse in a person being frightened before he is 
hurt. Well, I'll shut up shop and be off to bed. 
[ Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 2. — A room. Ellen and Henry Barton 
discovered. 

Ellen [weeping']. — Henry you came home last night 
intoxicated. How long must it go on thus ? Yoi* 
promised me faithfully after our mother died, and after 
you were discharged from Mr. Hagan's employ, that you 
would never taste intoxicating liquor again. Have you 
kept your promise ? Ah, if j^ou knew how I feel when 
you come home intoxicated, I know you would never 
drink again. 

Henry. — Don't lecture me to-day, Ellen, I feel badly 
enough and there's no use in giving me any further 
trouble. I know I have done wrong, but it seems I 
can't keep from falling when temptation is thrown in my 
way. But don't talk to me ; Ellen, my head is aching 
fearfully and I want to be quiet. 

Ellen. — I must talk, Henry. I beseech you, if 3"ou 
have any love for me, if you have any regard for the 
memory of our patient and loving mother, who is now 
in Heaven and who knows your every action, that you 
determine in your heart that you will nevermore touch 
the intoxicating bowl, and that you will strive faithfully 
to keep your promise, and then ask God to deliver you 
when tempted and he will do it. Oh, do not — do not, I 
beseech you, go on in the course you have marked out. 
It will bring ruin on yourself — ruin of both body and 
Boul; whilst I, who have always looked upon 3^ou with 
pride will be led to despise you. 

Henry. — What's the use of making vows and prom- 
ises when tliey arc made only to -be broken ? I know I 
am doing wrong but I can't help it. 

EiLEN. — But you can help it if you are only deter* 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 153 

mined and if you strive mightily and ask Gud to help 
you. If you do so you can overcome and resist all 
temptations, no matter how strong they may be. 

Henry. — 1 used to think I could but I don't think so 
now. If any person had told me yesterday that I would 
be drunk before another da}^ had gone round I would 
have considered him a fool. I had not tasted liquor for 
three months and I felt strong again. I believed I had 
entirely broken away from the band of iron that held 
me. and I felt and moved as a new man and as one who 
rejoiced in his strength. But in an unlucky moment I 
fell. As I was passing the tavern yesterday evening I 
met my old friend Jack Martin. He asked me to drink. 
At first I refused, but he insisted — •• for friendship's 
sake,'" he said, and it seemed I couldn't resist. After I 
had taken the first glass it was very easy to take another 
and another, and I didn't stop until I was beastly drunk 
and had to be brought home by some of my friends. 
Oh. I heartily wish there was no liquor in the world, or 
that I had the power to keep it from my lips I 

Ellen. — Give me your promise once more, Henry, 
that you will strive to resist the demon intemperance, 
and that you will put your trust in God and ask him to 
help you. I know it is very hard to break away when 
the habit has once been formed, but it is worth while to 
try when there is so much at stake. Give me your 
promise again and I will pray for you — I will pray that 
you may always be able to resist temptation, and that 
you may live the life of a true and a good man. 

Henry. — TVell, I give you my promise again, but it 
seems wrong to promise when my promises are so often 
broken. But I promise you that I will neA'er touch the 
accursed bowl again. 

Ellen. — Strive to keep your promise, dear brother, 
and all will yet be well. \_Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 3. — So.me as second. James Smith and. Ellen 
and Henry Barton discovered. 
Henry. — Five years ago, James, you discovered that 
I was learning to drink. You had called in at Mr. 
Hagan's store to see me and there discovered that the 
wine cup was luring me on to destruction. You warned 



154 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

me to leave off and not break my mother's heart. You 
told me that a chain of roses was being wound aroun'd 
me which would soon become a chain of iron. I heeded 
you not but went on in my downward career. A few\ 
months afterward I was discharged from Mr. Hagan's \ 
store, and a short time after that my sainted mother died "^ 
sorrowing over her wayward son. I am employed again 
in Mr. Hagan's store and have regained the confidence 
of my employer. All I regret is that I did not take 
your advice that night in the store, and save my mother 
and sister the world of suffering they endured. 



REFORMATION. 



CHAKACTERS. 



Police Officer. Superintendent of Reform School. 

Teacher. John White, the boy. 

James Carr. John White, the man. Old Nab. 



Part 1. 
Scene. — Reform School — Superintendent in office, writ- 
ing — James Carr sitting opposite, reading. Enter 
officer with hoy, having long, uncombed hair, very dirty 
and ragged. 

Officer. — Good-morning, Mr. Superintendent 1 Here 
is another youngster to add to your numerous family. 
\_Hands Superintendent the commitment, which he 
proceeds to read. In the meantime the culprit 
walks up to James Carr, and with a heavy blow 
with his fist knocks him off his chair. Both gen- 
tlemen pull him away rather roughly. Carr be- 
gins to cry lustily.'] 
»Sup. [shakirig him']. — What do you mean by such 
conduct as that, sir ? 

Boy. — I know'd that feller outside! He was put 
here for whipping his mother. He and I used to be 
"kinches" and went "snucks" on tappin' tills. One 
nii?ht he " bio wed" on me, and I made up my mind to 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 155 

*'lam" him the fust chance, and I've done it, only I 
want to get another lick at him ! 

Sup. — Well, sir, we don't allow such conduct here. 
And if you are guilty of it again, j^ou will be severely 
punished. Step up here, now, and answer my questions. 
Mind you, tell me the truth, too, for I shall know in a 
moment when you tell me a lie. What is your name ? 

Boy.— ''Taller Jack!" 

Sup. — That is not your right name, sir ! 

Boy. — Yes, 'tis; the boys all call me "Yaller Jack." 

Sup. — I want your right name — the one your mother 
calls you. 

Boy. — I hain't got no mother. The old woman calls 
me John White. 

Sup. — What old woman ? 

Boy. — The one I lives with when I aint trampin'. 
She says she's my aunt, but I guess she lies. 

Sup. — What is this woman's name, and where does 
she live ? 

Boy.— They call her " Old Nab." She lives in Horse- 
tail court, down by Water street. 

Sup. — What does she do ? 

Boy. — Drinks rum, mostly. You see, I and Sal Lake 
board with her, and she sends Sal out every morning to 
beg and steal. She used to send me, too, but I've got 
so big now she can't come any of her games over me. I 
go on my own hook. 

Sup —Did you ever work ? 

Boy. — Yes, I set up ten-pins in Mike Dunn's alley for 
two months, but I got tired of that, and Mr. Smith's 
hostler gave me a job in the stable ; but I stole his rum 
one night, got drunk, and sot the hay afire, so I got 
cleared out. 

Sup. — Were you ever arrested before ? 

Boy. — Yes, a good many times. 

Sup.— What for? 

Boy. — Oh, for stealing and fighting. Old Jones got me 
"jugged," once, for setting fire to his barn, 'cause he 
horse-whipped me. I'll pay the old rascal yet. 

Sup. — l)id you ever attend school ? 

Boy. — ^^I went half a day once, but the teacher didn't 
come. 



156 SCHOOLPAY DIALOGUES. 

Sur. — Po Toii laiOAT your letters ? 

Boy. — Xo ; but I know how to play cards, 

Svp. — Pid you ever go to church or to SabbatU 
school ? 

Boy. — I was inside a church once, with Pat Mooney. 
We s^ot throuofh the wiuder. and o:ot a whole lot uf 
books ! 

Sup. — How old were you when your lather and mother 
died? 

Boy. — Mother died when I was a little shaver. 1 
don't think 1 ever had any father! 

Sup. — Come here, and let me examine your pockets. 
{^Overhauls his pockets and pulls out several ptugs and 
papers of tobacco, a pipe, a pack of cards and a bottle 
of gin. Sends Carr for teacher, who soon makes his 
appearance.^ Mr. Hayden. you will please take this 
boy and see that he is thoroughly washed and has his 
hair cut. Then burn those rags and have some clean 
clothing put on him. 

\_£xil boy and teacher by one door : b}/ opposite door 
enters an old, fat, red-faced Irish woman, half 
drunk. She goes directly to the officer and shakes 
herjist in hisface.^ 

Olp Nab. — Och, ye murtherin' spalpeen ! What have 
ye done with me b'y ? Sure and couldn't the little in- 
nocent go afther a little dhrop of ile for his old aunty's 
lamps without your stalin' him ant» ^iringin' him to this 
horrible place. Bad luck to ye! 

Officer. — You must talk to that gentleman {^point- 
ing to Superintendent^. The boy is in his charge now. 

Old Nab [^couj-fesging^. — I beg yer honor's pardon, 
but where is me b V ? I came to take him home wid we ; 
and he has as beautiful a home as iver a b'y had in the 
wurrld. 

Sup. — Why. mndam, the officer says he caught him in 
the act of house-breaking. The boy himself says you 
taught him to beg and steal. This is the kind of oil you 
sent him after, [holding up the bottle, 2 aini your face 
looks as if you had ' struck oil." a little too often. I 
shall keep the boy. and if he behaves well, you will be 
permitted to visit him in the course of two weeks. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 157 

Old Nab. — Och, ye two murtherin' villains ! I'll sa 
if I can't have me b'y, the little darlint that 1 have so 
tinderly brought up in the buzzum of the church! I'll 
sa Father Mahooney this blissed day, I will, and bad 
luck to yez. 

[^Exit Nab and Officer. Enter John White, present- 
ing quite a different appearance in his new suit.'] 

John [^admiring himself]. — Aha 1 I'm somebody 
now, aint I ? 

Sup. — You certainly look much better, and I hope 
you will try hereafter to he a better boy. To-morrow 
you will attend school, and work in the shop. Your 
privileges while here, and the length of time you remain 
here, will depend entirely upon your own conduct. You 
are not to be kept here for punishment, but for reforma- 
tion. Your past offences wdll be overlooked. Here our 
rules forbid your sweai'Lag, fighting, or lying. For 
either of these offences you will be punished. On Sun- 
day, you will attend church and Sabbath-school, and if 
you improve fast while here, 3^ou v/ill in a few months be 
permitted to go out to a good home. 

John. — I'll try to behave. 

Sup. — That is right. " I'll try" does wonders some- 
times. 

Part 2. 

Scene. — Interval of twelve years. Schoolroom in same 
institution. Enter Superintendent, accompanied by a 
young man whom he introduces to the teacher. 

Sup. — Boys, I take pleasure in introducing to you Mr. 
John White, who was formerly an inmate of this institu- 
tion, but who is now engaged in study for the ministry. 
You will please listen attentively while he entertains 
you with a few remarks. 

John. — My j^oung friends : — Twelve years ago I came 
to this institution a poor, worthless outcast. Having 
lost my parents when quite young, I was thrown friend- 
less and homeless upon the world. I was picked up in 
the street by an old drunken woman, who took me to 
her miserable hut and taught me to beg and steal that I 
might contribute to her support. I soon became an apt 



168 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

pupil. I found the transition from one crime to anothei* 
gradual and easy. Stealing, swearing, and Sabbath- 
breaking were my principal accomplishments. I was 
finally arrested and brought here. That was the first 
step toward my salvation. Here, for the first time, was 
1 decently clad. Here I was taught to read and work. 
In the Sabbath-school, of which you are members, I was 
first taught the way of life and that I had an immortal 
soul. Here I found true friends, and these friends I 
have gratefully remembered through all the subsequent 
years of my life. When I came, I determined to reform. 
I obe3^ed the rules and improved my time. In less than 
a year a place was found for me with a wealthy and 
benevolent gentlemen, and ever since his house has been 
my home. Boys, this is your golden opportunity ; 
strive to improve it. Listen to the teachings here im- 
parted to you. Resolve that the past shall be for- 
gotten in the good deeds of the future. By so doing, 
you will become useful members of society, and qualified 
to take your parts in the great Battle of Life. 

\_The hoys all rush up to him as he concludes, to 
shake hands, and the curtain falls.'] 



SEEING A GHOST. 

CHAEACTERS. 
Nellie. Sue. Margaretta. 



Scene. — Nellie and Sue sitting together in the evening, 
employed on some kind of fancy wo7'k. 

Sue. — I don't believe, Nell, there ever was such a thing 
as a ghost, you may say what you please. I never shall 
be afraid of encountering one. 

Nell. — I hope you never will, but I believe there must 
be something in ghosts, or else there never would have 
been so many stories about them ; beside, my Uncle Tom 
slept in a haunted house once, and a ghost came into his 
room and stood over the bed. My Uncle Tom always 
spoke the truth. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 159 

gxjE. — I don't doubt but that he thought he saw one, 
but I do doubt that he did, for I believe it was a ghost 
only of his imagination. 

Nell. — Well, my mother once saw one walking in the 
grave-yard, and surely you wont think that imagina- 
tion. 

Sue. — Well, I believe it was either imagination, or 
some one who attempted to frighten her. 

Nell. — Well, I think you are obstinate enough, and 
that nothing will convince you except experience ; which 
I hope you may never have. 

Sue. — If I should see any thing which resembled a 
ghost, I should be sure it was some one trying to 
frighten me, and I would find out if the}^ we^e possessed 
of ghostly properties. 

Nell. — 1 hardly think 3^ou would be as brave as the 
young lad}^ who went into a tomb for the purpose of 
trying her courage, if you do think you would not fear 
a ghostly appearance. 

Sue, — Why, what happened to her ? 

Nell. — Well, she took up a skull and commenced ex- 
amining it, when a sepulchral voice sounded near, and 
said, "That's mine!" So she dropped the skull and 
took up another, and began an examination, when a 
voice said, " That's mine !" Instead of displaying fear 
she called out in a firm voice, *' You fool, you haven't 
got two skulls.". She had recognized the voice as be- 
longing to one person. 

Sue. — Oh, dear ! I never want to go into a tomb any 
way, or touch a skull ; but I'll risk all the ghosts. I'm 
glad I am not as superstitious as you are. 

Nell. — So am I ; for I am frightened always when I 
am alone in the evening, for fear I shall see a ghost. 

Sue. — How silly ! Who put such ideas into your head 
in the first place? 

Nell. — My Uncle Tom is alwaj^s telling ghost 
stories. When I was a a little bit of girl he used to take 
me on his knee and tell me most dreadful stories, till I 
cant help believing in ghosts. 

Sue. — I am really sorry for you, Nell ; but do try and 
banish such superstition. 

Nell. — I have tried a great many times, but it does 



160 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

no good. The other night I was obliged to walk alone 
a short distance in the dark, and on seeing something 
white, I was so frightened that I could scarcely walk, 
and I felt as if I should soon faint, when brother Will 
overtook, me, and said my would-be ghost was only a 
white calf. 

Sue. — I believe all ghosts, if seen in the daytime 
would be as far from any thing unnatural as that poor 
calf. 

Nell. — I have often thought what I would say should 
I see such an apparition ; but I presume it would all flee 
from me when the ghost appeared. 

Sue. — I presume so. But what do you think you 
would do ? 

]S"ell. — I think 1 would talk to the white object in a 
coaxing manner, for I have heard they will leave much 
sooner than if one speaks harshly to them. 

Sue. — Indeed I So you would use gentle means to 
rid yourself of their presence? 1 would do no such 
thing, I assure you. 

Nell. — What would you do, then ; command them ? 
I have heard that they will be sure to haunt one who 
uses them unkindly. 

Sue. — You hear great things, and such as I do not 
believe. But I wouldn't command them, I would only 
run to them and divest them of their white drapery, 
so that I might see who wished to play a trick on me. 

Nell. — What if you should see it vanish away be- 
fore you could touch it I Then would you believe in 
ghosts ? 

Sue. — Certainly. 

Nell. — Oh, Sue I the clock has just struck nine, and 
I told mother I would be home at half past eight ; but, 
really, it is so dark, and I am alone that I feel afraid. 

Sue. — I will go with you and protect you from all the 
ghosts, for you know I am not afraid. ^ 

Nell. — I am so glad. Let us go now, for mother 
will be so anxious. But, hark 1 what was that noise ? 

Sue, — I heard nothing but the wind. Don't be so 
timid. 

Nell. — Listen I there, you certainly heard that. 
What was it ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 161 

Sue.— Nothing I Oh ! look I look ! 

[^Door opens slowly and a person wrapped in a sheet 
walks slowly into the room.'] 

Nell. — Sue ! Sue ! you're not afraid ; make it go 
ftway. l^Hue crouches behind her chair.'] 

Sue. — Coax it, Nell. Oh ! I'm fainting. 
[ The ghost approaches nearer.] 

Nell. — My dear, kind ghost, wont you please — 
Oh-h-h ! 

\_The ghost approaches still nearer to Sue and stands 
still] 

Ghost. — Never deny my existence again. ' 
[Goes out slowly.] 

Nell.— It is gone, Sue; but oh I wasn't it dreadful? 

Sue. — More terrible than I ever saw before. I shall 
believe in ghosts after this. 

Nell. — Who could help it ? How I shudder to think 
of it? I shall not go home to-night. 

Sue, — You must go alone if you do. 

Nell. — And that I'll never do. [Enter Ifargarette.] 

Nell. — Oh, Margarette ! we were so terrified a moment 
ago. Sue nearly fainted, and I felt my senses leaving 
me. 

Margarette. — Why, what was the matter? 

Sue. — We saw a ghost. 

Margarette. — Oh ! don't talk so foolishly. There 
are no ghosts in this house, I assure you. You are very 
imaginative, to-night. 

Nell. — No; we certainly saw one. I should think you 
might believe what both of us say. 

Sue, — It came so near me that I could have touched 
it, and it was a ghost. 

Margarette. — Girls, I did think you possessed of a 
little courage ; what 3^ou thought a ghost was only my- 
self with a sheet wrapped about me. 

Nell, — No, no ; it must have been a ghost. 

Margarette. — If you can not believe me, I will play 
ghost again. 

Sue. — Don't, I beg of you. It must be; but how fool- 
ish I acted. Why did I not run after 3'ou as I said I 
should and find oat it was j^ou ? 

n 



162 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Nell. — Well, if people can imitate ghosts as weli as 
that, I shall think that there are not quite so many 
after all. 

Margarette. — I hope you will think so, and not be 
so timid after this. I think this will teach Sue not to 
boast of her courage ao^ain. 

Sue. — Indeed it will. Come, Margarette, let us both 
go home with Nell. [All go out.^ 



THE MOTTO ; OR, EXAMPLE. 

Scene 1. — Two little girls seated at a work-table, one 
sewing, the other arranging a box of zephyr worsteds 
and silks. The name of the eldest Mary, the youngest 
Fannie. 

Fannie. — Sister Mary, our teacher told us yesterday, 
that it was very nnchristian-like to speak evil of the ab- 
sent. Do you think it is ? 

Mary. — Yes, Fannie, I think it very wrong ; and you 
know mamma never speaks evil of any one. 

Fannie. -,-Well, then, I think that laclj^ who called to 
see mamma this morning is not a Christian, for she said 
so much evil about the governess of her children. Do 
you think she is ? 

Mary. — Indeed I don't know whether she is a Chris- 
tian or not ; but I know my sister Fannie is speaking 
evil of her, and the Bible forbids evil speaking of any- 
hody. 

Mother [who had entered the room unperceived, and 
heard part of the conversation']. — Do you know in what 
part of the Bible it is forbidden, Mary ? 

Mary. — Yes, mamma, here it is [turning over the 
leaves of a small pocket-testament, and reads aloud] : 
James, fourth chapter and eleventh verse — " Speak not 
evil one of another." 

Mother. — Well, Fannie, you wished me to find 3'OU 
a text for your marker ; now I will give you this one to 
work. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 163 

Fannie. — But, mamma, do you think it is so very, 
very wrong to speak evil ? [^Looking up inquiringly in 
her mothe'r^s face.'] 

Mother. — ^I do, indeed, m}^ daughter, think it exce-jd- 
ingl}" sinful. It is a violation of the moral law of God. 

Fannie. — But, mamma, when Mrs. Flipp was here this 
morning, and spoke so much evil about her governess, 
you did — [^stopping, she looks doion, and blushes']. 

Mother. — You do not mean to say, Fannie, that 3'our 
mother joined in the slander ? 

Fannie. — Oh, no ! ^o, mamma ! You did not speak 
one word of evil, but [_and again she looks down, col- 
ors, and is silent]. 

Mother. — But, what ? Don't be afraid, my love, but 
speak out candidl3^ 

Fannie. — Well, mamma [looking up timidly], you did 
not look displeased, and jou smiled two or three times. 

Mother. — Did I, my love? Then I did very wrong. 
I will tr}" to be more careful for the future, and endeavor 
to show b}^ my manner and words, as well as by silence, 
that I think evil-speaking is a crime — and, as such, 
should be discouraged b}^ all Christian people. 

Mary. — Mamma, would it not be a good idea to have 
an Anti-Evil-Speaking Society? 

Mother [smiling]. — I think it would, my dear; and 
suppose we begin one in a small private way. We three 
will form a little band, and do all we can to overcome 
this fault in ourselves and others. What do you say ? 

Mary. — Excellent ! 

Fannie [exclaims at the same moment]. — Delightful ! 

Mary. — And, mamma, we'll appoint you President 
[laughing]. 

Mother. — Well, Mary, I accept the office, and ap- 
point you Treasurer. 

Mary. — Treasurer, mamma ! Why, will there be any 
money to keep ? 

Mother. — There may be, although I hope there will 
not. 

.Mary. — I don't understand you, mamma. 

Mother. — Well then, Mary, as I am President, I ara 
going to make it a penalt}^ of five cents fine for every 
time we speak evil. 



161 SCHOOLDAY DIALOaUES. 

Fannie. — 1 know, mamma, you will never have any 
fines to pay. 

Mother. — I am not quite so sure of that, Fannie ; 
but I think this will act as a check, and make us more 
watchful. We will each have a small box, and the con- 
tents will be given to the poor. 

Fannie. — And may I give mine to poor old Sally, 
mamma ? 

Mother. — Certainly, m}^ dear, if j^ou wish it ; and I 
want you to remember, Fannie, if you ever take her 
gifts which your transgression of the law of love has 
earned for her, that I have known her for twenty years, 
and have never heard her speak one unkind word of an}', 
although she has suffered a great deal from the unkind- 
ness of others. [^Then, turning to her eldest daughter, 
she said ;] Do you know, Mary, I have often thought 
that this poor woman would be a noble example for some 
who can boast of education and high position. And 
now, my daughters, as we are formed into a society, its 
name, as Mary suggested, shall be " The Anti-Evil-Speak- 
ing Society ;" and its motto — what shall it be ? 

Fannie. — Oh, please mamma, let it be the text you 
have given me to work. 

Mother. — Yes, Fannie, we can not have a more suita- 
ble one — so our motto shall be: " Speak not evil one 
OF another." 

[^At this moment the parlor-door opened, and two 
morning visitors were announced — 3Irs. Dash and 
Miss Brilliant. A few common-place remarks en- 
sue, which the teacher of the dialogue can easily 
supply.'] 

Mrs. Dash. — I presume, Mrs. Belmont [the mother of 
the little girls'], you have heard the all-absorbing " sensa- 
tion" which is going the rounds — the elopement of Col- 
onel Fast's son with his chamber-maid ? 

Mrs. Belmont. — No, I have not. 

Mrs. Dash. — No! Well, you are "late !" But it is a 
treat to come, for it is ridiculous in the extreme, and I 
am quite sure Miss Brilliant will relate the story in her 
inimita\)le style of portraying the ludicrous. Will you 
not, my dear? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 165 

Mrs. Belmont. — If Miss Brilliant will first do me a 
favor, I shall be greatly obliged. 

Miss Brilliant. — Certainly, Mrs. Belmont ; you have 
but to make the request. 

Mrs. Belmont. — Thank you, dear Miss Brilliant, my 
daughters have to go to their studies, and Mary has 
expressed a great desire to hear you sing the exquisite 
anthem, which so charmed us all at Mrs. Cardini's, on 
Thursday evening last. [_Saying which she rose and 
opened the piano.'] 

Miss Brilliant. — It will give me the greatest 
pleasure to oblige Miss Mary, who I hear is a very 
talented musician in embryo. [Smiling, she seats her- 
self gracefully at the instrument, and sings with great 
feeling, the anthem "Ikiiow that my Redeemer liveth.''^] 

Mrs. Dash [^who rises and glances at her ivatcJi. 
before the last note has scarcely died away]. — I fear 
we will be late for our appointment at one, as I see it 
wants but twenty-five minutes of the time ; so do, my 
dear Miss Brilliant, give us the story as quickly as pos- 
sible ? 

Miss Brilliant. — Oh, not now ! Mrs. Dash, [implor- 
ingly,'] indeed I can not tell it at present. 

[Overcome with her emotions she bursts into tears. 
Little Fannie throws her arms around her and 
whispers in childlike simplicity ;] 

Fannie. — Don't cry. Miss Brilliant, please don't cry 
any more. [Miss Brilliant returns her caress and wipes 
her eyes.] 

Mrs. Dash. — Oh ! I beg pardon most sincerely, Miss 
Brilliant; I did not know you had changed your mmd, 
and I hope, Mrs. Belmont, you will excuse my being the 
innocent cause of getting up "a scene;" it is what I 
always studiously aim to avoid — no one can dread ex- 
citements more than I do — pray, excuse it, Mrs. Bel- 
mont. 

Mrs. Belmcnt. — You have done nothing, Mrs. Dash, 
for me to excuse; and as to Miss Brilliant's feelings, 
those sublime words affected her too deeply to recite a 
frivolous, slandering story so soon after ; she has en- 
deared herself to my heart and gained my esteem. 

{^The ladies now proceed to the hall, and as Mrs. 



'J 56 SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Bash advances, Jliss Brilliant j^efurns and whts^ 
pe7'$ to Jlrs. Belmont.'] 
Miss Brilliant. — Can I see voii alone in an hour, 
if I call ? 

Mrs. Belmont. — Certainly, mv love — come. 



ScEXE 2. — JTrs. Belmont is seated alone in he?- parlor. 
Jliss Brilliant enters. 

Miss Brilliant. — My dear Mrs. Belmont. I was 
anxious to see von alone to explain m\' extraordinary 
conduct, you must have thought me very childish ? 

Mrs. Belmont. — Xot at all. my love, I do not wonder 
at your feeling so deeply, such words, as you sung. 

Miss Brilliant. — But I have sung them many times 
before, and was never so atfected b}' them. In the 
first place, when I came here this morning, it was with 
a deep feeling of mortification. The last call Mrs. 
Dash and myself had made, she persuaded me to tell 
the ludicrous story of which they spoke to you. I did. 
tell it, and as she would have said, in my "inimitable 
state.-' of course I had the plaudits of the fashionable 
gossips present, and felt elated; but just as we were 
about retiring, the ladies, thinking us out of hearing, their 
conversation turned upon myself One lady made the 
remark — "Miss Brilliant is a most inimitable mimic." 
" Yes," replied another, " and I suppose ire will be taken 
ofi". at her next call." " I was reading" said a third, " a 
few days ago. what an old author said about a talent 
for ridicule — 'If it is indulged in for amusement, it is 
foolish : if for revenge, it is ^cicked.' " Mrs. Dash was 
busily engaged in conversation with the lady of the 
house, and did not hear the remarks ; and I did not 
tell her. for I believe people seldom speak of that which 
mortifies their pride. When I was requested to tell 
you the same story, and you prevented it, I can truly 
say. I was deeply grateful, for I did not want to tell the 
story, but did not know how to get out of it. Now tell 
me, my dear Mrs. Belmont, had you not a design in 
asking me to sing the anthem ? if you had, you took a 
most admirable plan I 

Mrs. Belmont. — Yes ; I had a design in it, I feel 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 167 

myself religiously bound not only to abstain from evil 
speaking myself, but to discourage it in others when- 
ever I can. 

Miss Brilliant. — You will scarcely believe me, Mrs. 
Belmont, when I assure you. that although I have =o 
freely indulged in this habit of ridicule and slander, I 
have always disapproved of it, and even when my 
praises have been the loudest. I have recently despised 
myself, for making merriment, like a buffoon, at the 
expense of others. 

Mrs. Belmont. — I can very readily credit that those 
were your feelings, for you were acting out your lower 
nature, and neglecting to develop your higher capacities ; 
and at the same time when we transgress any of the 
moral laws, there is a conscious feeling of degredation 
which humbles us in our own estimation, and this is a 
wise check from our Maker. 

Miss Brilliant — When I seated myself this morn- 
ing at the piano, it was with such a keen feeling of mor- 
tification, and with such a sincere wish to renounce for 
ever this abominable practice, that I saw the beautiful 
words of the anthem in a light I never viewed them 
before, and I longed to have strength from heaven to 
resist the wrong, and do right for the future. And 
these emotions, when Mrs. Dash asked me to tell the 
story, were the cause of my strange beha\-ior. 

Mrs. Belmont. — I can not tell you, my dear young 
friend, how happy this statement has made me, for 
you, thus feeling your own weakness, and looking above 
for your strength, will obtain the " wisdom" spoken of 
in James, 3d chapter, and ITth verse. 

Mlss Brilliant. — And will you not. my dear Mrs. 
Belmont, be my friend and counsellor, and help me to 
begin life anew ? 

Mrs. Belmont. — I am your sincere friend, and if I am 
capable of gi\'ing you counsel or aid at any time, I will 
most cheerfully do it ; but your greatest help must come 
from on high, for the Maker of the human heart is surely 
the most powerful Regulator of its emotions, and " from 
the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh.'' [ J/rs. 
Belmont then ro^e, and handing the mar ke r partly icorked 
bu liit^e Fanny, said']: I and my children have formed 



168 SCHCOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ourselves into a bond, which we have playfully called 
the "Anti-evil Speaking Societ}-," and the motto which 
Fannie is working on this marker is to be, " Speak not 
evil one of another." We are all pledged to do what 
we can to discourage evil speaking in ourselves or 
others, and every time we transgress, we will have to 
l)a3^ a fine of five cents. This will act as a check, and 
to remind us of our duty. 

Miss Brilliant. — Oh, that is a most admirable idea ! 
an Anti-evil Speaking Society — and original, I suppose. 

Mrs. Belmont. — No, it originated with Mary ; she 
suo^orested it, and I suggested the fines. 

Miss Brilliant. — I wish you would let me join it, 
Mrs. Belmont, for I need all the checks I can have, to 
overcome my besetting sin. 

Mrs. Belmont [laughing']. — With all my heart, my 
dear. The children have made me President, so I'll 
enroll your name at once. 

Miss Brilliant. — Well, Mrs. Belmont, it is the first 
time that I ever felt a wish that the poor should not be 
benefited. I really hope they wont get a cent from me, 
but I fear they will get dollars. 

Mrs. Belmont. — If there is not one cent finds its way 
to the box as a jflne, I propose, as the President, that we 
place dollars for the poor in another box, as a thank- 
ofiering for being delivered from so gross and degrad- 
ing a crime ! I can call it by no better name. 

Miss Brilliant. — Our motto at a distance, may do 
very well for others, Mrs. Belmont, but as for me, I 
must have it very near me all the time ; so I will just 
call on my way home [rising'] and hand this to the 
jeweler, [taking a heavy plain gold ring from her finger, 1 
and have these words engraved upon it — " Speak not 
evil one of another. ^^ 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 169 

CHOOSING A TRADE OR PROFESSION. 

CHARACTEES. 
Hall. Swain. BEAj>f. Meeks. Teacher. 



Hall. — Say, Swain, who, tliat is now in this school, 
will make the greatest figure in the world ? Do you 
think there is one that will ever be President of the 
United States ? 

Swain. — Your questions. Hall, are easier asked than 
answered. You know as w^ell as I who are the best 
scholars, who are the best in the ball alley, and who 
are the most popular every where about the school. 

Hall. — Do you believe there is one that will ever be 
a member of Congress, a governor of some State, or 
even a member of the Legislature ? 

Swain. — I do not know about that. Time often 
brings about wonderful things. Lincoln never attended 
as good a school as this ; and perhaps I might say the 
same of Washington. But these great and good men 
made the best use of such opportunities as were in 
their reach. They were more studious than some in 
this school. 

Hall.— Now, Swain, I know that you intend to be 
something in the world ; what would you like best to 
be? 

Swain. — I think that I shall be well satisfied with 
farming. 

Hall. — What I with all the scientific learning that 

you will acquire in [Jiere use the name of the 

school where this piece is spoken,'] and perhaps a college 
course besides, and A. M. attached to3^our name, would 
you then condescend to be nothing but a country clod- 
hopper ? 

Swain. — Don't speak in such disrespectful terms of 
that business which is the main source of every bodj^'s 
living. Before you talk so, learn to live without eating 
or wearing any thing that has grown on a farm. Some 
of our best men have been farmers. Some of the best 
governors and members of Congress have been invite*? 



170 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to those exalted positions from rural homes. When 
a man is thus honorably promoted from a secluded 
home, if he have the benefit of a good scientific and 
literary education acquired in his youth at some 
good institution, how great his advantage ! And then 
no one leads a more honorable and independent life 
than the farmer. If he be a scholar, and take delight 
in scientific and literary pursuits, he can find entertain- 
ment with his books, while his crops are growing. 
Think of Washington, who, after gaining the independ- 
ence of his country and aiding in establishing a new 
form of government, then retired from public life and 
engaged in agriculture. 

Hall. — I see the force of your reasoning. \^Enter 
Dean.'] 

Dean. — What now, Swain ? you seem to be giving a 
touch of the sublime ! 

Swain. — I was just setting forth some of m^^ ideas 
about farming as a business. 

Hall. — Yes, Dean, and he has almost persuaded me 
to be a farmer. 

Dean. — It would be well if many people who are look- 
ing to some profession that they imagine will be genteel 
and dignified could be altogether persuaded to be satis- 
fied with life on a farm; even some now in this institu- 
tion. 

Hall.- — Do you include me in that list ? 

Dean. — I mean no personalities, but future time and 
circumstances will disclose what position you and others 
in this school are best adapted to fill. 

Hall. — Now, since the subject is fairly opened, tell 
me. Dean, what business would you like best ? 

Dean. — I'll tell 3^ou some time. [Enter Sleeks."] 

Meeks. — Talking about business, are you ? well, then, 
let me join your company, and hear some of j^our ideas 
about the pursuits of life. * 

Swain. — All right, Meeks, what have j^ou in view? 

Meeks. — I am not yet fairl}^ decided about that. I 
intend first to get a good education, and tlien see what 
prospect opens for me. What do j^ou intend to do, 
Hall ? 

Hall. — I intend to graduate ; then pitch into legal 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 171 

studies, and after practicing law for a few years, I will 
aim for going to Congress. 

Dean. — It will be well for you, if your means are 
equal to the wants of 3'our ambition. You may very 
much miss your aim. 

Hall. — You know the sajnng — " He who aims at the 
ftun ma}" not reach his object, but he will be likely to 
shoot higher than if he aimed at something on the 
earth. ' So if I never reach the Senate, I shall expect 
to attain some position higher than common life. 

Dean. — You would do well to bear in mind the fact 
that some of our would-be-great men have used them- 
selves up in just such ambitiotis schemes as 3^ou now 
entertain, and then did not attain the grand object of 
their wislies. If every man went to Congress that 
wishes to go, TVashington City would not hold them all; 
but if none were allowed to go, but such as are well 
qualified, I believe that there would be many vacant 
places in the Capitol. 

Meeks. — Hold on, or you may discourage him in his 
grand projects. 

Dean. — Well, then, I will change the subject. I sup- 
pose that yon look to the ministry. 

Meeks. — I will not say that I do, nor that I do not. 
I intend, after graduating, to proceed as Providence 
opens the way. 

Swain. — That is sensible, Meeks. I hope the right 
thing for you will soon be opened to you. 

Hall. — If he looks to the ministry, why not decide 
on it now, and then look to the pastorship of a good 
church, or perhaps a bishoprick ? 

Swain. — Time enough to think about that after a few 
years of successful pastorship in a common church, or 
a few years of circuit-riding. He might be xerj useful 
in either capacity. 

Dean. — Well, it takes all kinds of people to fill the 
world. We must have farmers, mechanics, merchants, 
and professional men. All are useful in their places. 

Hall. — The most of our students are looking to 
some of the learned professions. I suppose that I shall 
have the pleasure of calling 3'ou Doctor Dean sometime. 

Dean.- -Wait till you see that on my sign, and 



172 SCKOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

the emblems of a physician's office in my windows. 
l^Unter teacher.^ 

Teacher. — Young gentlemen, I have overheard a 
part of your conversation about the choice of business. 
A judicious choice in this particular will be one of the 
greatest things of yonr lives. If you wish for some of 
my ideas about it I will tell yon what they are with 
pleasure. 

Meeks. — I would like to hear you. 

All the others. — Go on I Speak on I 

Teacher. — I believe that all persons are designed to 
be useful in some way ; and every person in his pupil- 
age should strive to ascertain what this particular voca- 
tion is likely to be. Your studies should develop your 
abilities and capacities, and your learning should qualify 
you for future usefulness, and for living in such a way 
that the world will be the better for what you shall have 
done in your lifetime. A man's life is a failure when 
after his death it can be only said of him that the world 
has not been benefited by his having lived in it. Consider 
now the character of the different pursuits of life, and 
what is necessary for success in each of them ; and your 
ability and adaptation in them, as well as their respec- 
tive uses ; then ma}^ you expect to learn where and how 
you can be most appropriately employed. It is wise to 
trust in Providence. When -^^our merits and your ac- 
quirements become well known, you may be invited to 
some dignified and honorable position in church or state 
that you do not now anticipate. To whatever 3''ou look 
do not despise labor. Farmers and mechanics are the 
bone and sinew of a nation. They should be educated 
as well as any others ; they, too, can enjoy scientific and 
literary pursuits as well as any people. Do not despise 
labor because you have a scientific education. Do not 
foist yourselves into some of the learned professions 
because they appear to you genteel and dignified. 
Some of them are now too much crowded. The Chris- 
tian ministry is truly a noble and glorious calling. It 
may not advance you t,o wealth, but by it you will do 
good for your fellow-beings, and have the blessing of 
heaven to rest upon you. Other professions and all 
trades look mainly to the acquisition of wealth ; and I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 173 

need not now speak of the demoralizing influence of in- 
ordinate ambition for this. But I will remind 3'ou that 
a rational education will counteract this and all other 
evil Influences in the different vocations of life. 

It is not for me to dictate what should be your chosen 
vocation, but your natural inclination, your acquired 
learning, and the judgment of your wise friends wlio 
will sometime see your merits, will direct you to the 
place that you should fill. Young gentlemen, I now 
leave the subject with you ; think about it and act ac- 
cording the best of your judgment. \_Exit Teacher.'] 

Dean. — There, fellows, what think you. now about 
choosing a trade or a profession ? 

Swain. — The more I think of agriculture as an 
employment, the more interest I feel in it. I en- 
dorse the language of my favorite poet : — 

"Oh, knew he but his happiness, of men 
The happiest he ! who far from public rage, 
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, 
Drinks the pure pleasures of the Rural Life." 

That's the life for me. [^Exit Swain.'] 

Meeks. — As for me, I hope to see my way to honor 
and usefulness when I finish my scientific studies 
But now I feel an inward monition that says, Live not 
in vain ! Live to do good ! But I can not now say 
much about it. [Exit Meeks.] 

Hall. — Swain and Meeks seem to be quite set on 
leading a humble career ; and how eagerly they swal- 
lowed the teacher's discourse ! 

Dean. — They take quite a common sense view of 
trades and professions. What do you think now about 
your schemes ? 

Hall. — Not discouraged ! A few years after I 

graduate at [here use the name of some college 

often talked about where this piece is spoken] perha}>s 
you will hear from me. 

Dean. — When you reach the pinnacle of your glory, 
7"omember those who were once your fellow-learners in 
this school, and then come and Adsit me in my humble 
abode. [Exeunt.] 



174 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



CHILD-PHILOSOPHY. 

LiLLiE. — I shan't stand it ! I wont ! I do declare 1 
It is the most absurd thing I ever knew ! If it is not 
enough to provoke a saint ! ! 

MiNA. — What is that, Lillie ? Did you say you were 
going to be a saint ? 

Lillie. — No ! any thing but that I 

MiNA. — Why 1 Did you not sa}^ you felt like a saint? 

Lillie. — How should I know how saints feel ? It is 
bad enough to feel like one's self, and I know that I feel 
very much provoked ! 

MiNA. — Why, that is funny ! 

Lillie. — Well, I don't see any fun in it ! 

MiNA. — But, see here, Lillie ; tell me what 

Lillie. — Don't talk to me ! I am too much vexed! 

MiNA. — But, Lillie, do tell me — what has annoyed 
you so much — come ! What is it ? You will tell me ? 
Won't you ! 

Lillie. — Why ! people treat me so ! I 

MiNA. — Do they ? That is too bad I What have they 
done ? 

Lillie. — Why, they think at our house that I am 
nothing but a little snip of a girl I They think they 
can say any thing to me ! I am of no consequence at 
all ! And here I am, nearly ten years old ! And yon 
see how very tall, and womanly looking I am ! I think 
it is abominable ! I 

MiNA. — Well, so it is, Lillie I 

Lillie. — Oh, yes I I must be good ! I must not be 
rude I I must do every thing, just so 1 and yet, when I 
want any thing — Oh ! I am only a little girl 1 1 

MiNA. — It is too bad I 

Lillie. — Don't you tell any body, Mina ! There is 
my sister Bell — (now, if she is a young lady, why 
shouldn't I be ?) She went off to Saratoga with trunks 
full of dresses and mantles and shawls, waterfalls, Gre- 
cian curls, nets, (oh, beauties !) two new bracelets, em- 
broideries, handkerchiefs, and all kinds of bright ribbons, 
and every thing nice ! — and I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUE^. 175 

MiNA.^But Bell is eight j^ears older than you are, 
you know ? 

LiLLiE. — That is nothing! Age has nothing to do 
with it ! If it had, why doesn't mother go off and dress 
and ride and have good times ? But here I am, ex 
pected to behave like a lady, and I ought to be treated 
like one ! 

MiNA. — Well, is that all? Have you told me all 
your troubles ? 

LiLLiE. — No ! not half I There is my brother George, 
ne talks to me as if I was good for nothing but waiting 
on other people. Just a little mite ! Calling out Lillie, 
here ! or, Lillie, there ! Bring me this ! or, bring me 
that ! I don't mind running up and down stairs for 
him, and helping him, for he is real nice, and bringing 
him his slippers and his papers and his dressing-gown 
and his cigars and his cane and his books and his 
Florida water ! But then, why doesn't he take me out 
riding with him in his new wagon ? Why doesn't he ask 
me to walk in the park ? Why don't I sit up late at 
night in the parlor ? I think I deserve it — don't you ? 

MiNA. — Why don't you speak to your brother and 
sister, and tell them how you feel ? 

Lillie. — Yes! That is just what tries me so! George 
gives me a paper of candy, and says I look so small — • 
that it sounds cunning to hear me talk ! And Bell says, 
Pshaw I child ! run away, and play with your dolls ! You 
must not think about such things for years to come 1 

MiNA, — What does your mother say ? 

Lillie. — Oh ! mother says I am only making trouble 
for myself — that these are my happiest days. But, 
dear me ! how can that be ? 

MiNA. — I guess she is right, Lillie ! That is just 
what my mother says ! 

Lillie. — Well, I don't believe it ! If people mean 
what they sa}^, why don't they act it? If they are hap- 
piest at home, why don't they stay at home ? If fine 
clothes are such a care and trouble, why do they have 
them ? If sitting up late at night injures their health, 
why don't they go to bed at eight o'clock, like me? If 
jellies, and creams, and pickles are so very good for 
older people, I don't see how they can be so very bad 



176 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

for me ? Oh, I don't think a few years ought to make 
such a difference ! And I tell you I am not going to 
stand it I It is not right I If I am nothing but a child, 
let me act as a child I And if I am a little woman, 
then treat me as a woman ; and I shall never be satis- 
fied until they do ! 



THE NOBLEST HERO. 

DRAMATIS PERSPN^. 

Mr. Manly, the schoolmaster. 

Mrs. Truman. 

Frank Truman, 

Joe Martin, 

Henry Morley, [ Scholars. 

Clark Richmond, 

Lewis Hermann, 



Scene 1 . — School-room, class standing. 

Mr. M. — Now, boys, I promised you a new study for 
Monday, and as it is Friday I will give you the sub- 
ject now. It is — What Constitutes the 'J'rue Hero — 
and you ma}^, if you choose, give an example of the no- 
blest hero of whom you have ever read. 

Frank. — May we ask our friends about it, or must 
we find out for ourselves ? 

Mr. M. — I prefer that you should find out for your- 
selves. 

Henry. — We may look in books, may n't we ? 

Mr. M. — Certainly. Any books which you can find 
to give you any light upon the subject. It is the hour 
for dismissal; put away your books, and when you come 
out be sure to lock the door. [Uxit Mr. M.'] 

Clark. — Who under the sun is the greatest hero ? I 
can't guess. 

Lewis. — You're not expected to guess, 3'ou're to 
think. 

Joe. — It is not very hard. I think I know mine 
already. 

Frank. — I should know mine if I thought Mr. Manly 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 177 

meant what we are thinking of. But he smiled so oddly 
when he told us the subject, that I suspect he means 
more than we think he does. 

Clark. — Well, come home ; we can talk it over after- 
ward. I am as hungrj^ as I can be. \_Exit all.'\ 

SoENE 2. — A parlor simply furnished. Mrs. Trumon 
and Frank Truman sitting at a table. Frank in dec]) 
thought. 

Frank. — Mother ! 

Mrs. T. — Well, Frank ! what is it ? You seem to be 
more thoughtful than usual. 

Frank. — Yes, mother ; because our new teacher gave 
us such a queer subject for our lesson next Monday 
morning. 

Mrs. ^T.— Well, what was it, Frank ? 

Frank. — It was — What Constitutes a True Hero — 
and 1 c ann ot make up my mind ; and we are not per- 
mittedjSlMask anybody. 

Mrs! T [smiling']. — Well, Frank, then I am afraid I 
can not help you. 

Frank [leaning his head on his hand, thinks ; but 
suddenly jumping up exclaims]. — I have it ! I have it, 
mother! [Runs from, the room.] 

Mrs. T.. — I am sure I hope he has, as he has tried so 
hard. [Exit Mrs. T.] 

Scene 3. — Monday morning, the street before the school- 
house. Enter Henry and Lewis at opposite doors. 

Henry. — Well, Lewis, have you your hero ? 

Lewis. — Yes, indeed, Henry. It did not take me long 
to think who I should have. 

Henry. — Well ! where are the others ? It seems to 
me they'll be late if they don't hurry. 

[Enter Frank, Clark, and Joe.] 

Lewis. — Here they are ! Good-morning ! 

.Ice. — Got your hero, Lou? 

Lewis [slapjnng his jacket]. — Yes, all right; safe 
here in my pocket. 

Clark. — He must be a precious small hero if he is 
in that pocket. 
12 



178 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Lewis. — He may turn out bigger than yoiiis, who 
knows ? though he is in such a small space. 

Eeank. — Yes, Lou is right ; it is not always the 
largest bundle which contains the most valuable article. 
lUnter Mr. M.'] 

Henry. — Well, here is Mr. Manly. 

Mr. M, — Good-morning, boys ! 

All. — Good-morning, sir. 

Mr. M. — I hope your heroes are all chosen ? 

All. — Yes, sir ; we are all ready. \_Exeunt all.'] 

Scene 4. — School-room. Boys seated. 

Mr. M. — Well, boys, I'll call upon each in turn for 
his idea of what constitutes a hero, and for your chosen 
one. Well, Joe, you may speak first. 

Joe. — I think, sir, that heroes should have great tal- 
ents, and should never be afraid of any one ; but should 
conquer all their enemies. 

Mr. M. — Well, certainly, you are quite right, as far 
as you go ; but have you not omitted any thing ? 

Joe. — I could not think of any other necessary quality, 
sir. 

Mr. M. — Well ! we will hear what the others say ; bat 
who is your hero ? 

Joe. — Alexander the Great. 

Mr. M. — Truly you have chosen a great conqueror ; 
but I am afraid he lacks some qualities which I should 
wish m}^ hero to have. Now, Clark, tell us your defini- 
tion. 

Clark. — I think, sir, that a hero should be generous 
and forgiving; but, at the same time, firm and un- 
daunted, and should love his country more than his 
life. And I have chosen Washington. 

Mr. M. — Very wejl, indeed, Clark, your definition is 
good, and your choice is a noble one. Now, let us hear 
Henry. 

Henry. — I, sir, have chosen Cromwell ; but I fear he 
is not the right kind of ^ hero, as I think he fought for 
himself quite as much'ifor the liberty of the English 
from Charles the First's tyranny, though I did not 
think of that before Clark spoke. 

Mr M. — I believe you are right, Henry, though it is 



SCTIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 179 

a disputed point whettier he did all for himself or not. 
Xow, Lewis, who is your hero ? 

Lewis. — I, sir, chose Washington, but as Clark has 
taken him, I will choose Abraham Lincoln, who was so 
kind and merciful, so just and good that he can stand 
side b^' side with Washington in our love and respecl. 

Mr. M. — Very well, indeed, Lewis. I am much 
jdeased that you should have chosen him. Xow, Frank, 
tell us your thoughts, we have heard all the rest. 

Frank. — I, sir, thought for a long time over all the 
heroes of ancient times, but none suited me ; they ai 
wanted something. Then I thought of the Bible verse : 
"He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty ; 
and he that ruleth his spirit than he thattaketh a city." 
I took that as n^definjtion, and I add to it generosity, 
self-devotion, ancWHfcsacrifice. 

Mr. M. — Truly, Frank, you are right. Yor [twrning 
to the audience, 2 

"The noblest Hero of the whole 
Is he who can himself control." 

[^Exeunt omnes.^ 



WOMEN'S EIGHTS. 
CHARACTERS. 



Five Boys. 

Polly Simpsox, a tall, slender spinster. 

Nancy Lawrence, a strong-minded lady. 

Granny SnaiTL, a slender spinster, with a blue cotton handker- 
chief bound tightly around her head, and tied in a bow knot 
behind. 

Simon Yilderblows, a small, inferior-looking old bachelor. 

[All seated near a desk, excepting the boys, who are in the 
back part of the house.] 



Polly Simpson [rising^. — The first thing in order will 
be to choose some one to preside over this meeting. I 
nominate Sister Snarl for president. 

Nancy Lawrence. — I second the nomination. 

Polly Simpson. — It is moved and seconded that Sis- 



180 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ter Snarl be president of this meeting. If this be yer 
minds, please manifest it by saying aye. 

All. — Aye ! aye ! 

Polly Simpson. — 'Tis a vote. Sister Snarl will now 
take the desk. 

\_Granny now marches to the desk, while Polly takes 
a seat at her elbow.'] 

Granny Snarl. — Sister Simpson will now read ye the 
resolutions. 

Polly Simpson [^rises and reads'], — Resolved, That the 
awful state our country is in, bids us wimmen folks do 
something right off. 

Resolved, That as, under the present rule of the men, 
we are already in a deplorable condition, which grows 
worse and worse every day, we wimmen folks will take 
matters in hand, seize the reins of government, and 
make better steerage than they do. 

Resolved, That to put a stop to this war, and to make 
peace, which shall be thorough and endurable, and to 
bring down vittals and things, so as not to have so many 
paupers for the town to support, we will go to the bal- 
lot-box at the next annual town-meeting, and elect, if 
possible, competent women to take charge of the public 
business. 

Granny Snarl. — If it be yer minds to accept these, 
you'll please say aye. 

All. — Aye ! aye ! 

GraNxVY Snarl. — It's a vote. Sister Simpson will 
now continue her remarks. 

Polly Simpson [^hemming and bowing, and clearing 
her throat, proceeds to speak]. — Fellow-citizens : This is 
an awful state that our country is in just now, and 
every thing is growing worse and worse. Goods, and 
such like, are so dreadful high that we'll soon be vmable 
to live at all, and it's all owing to the mismanagement of 
the men folks. Now, if we wimmen folks take things in 
hand, and follow these resolutions, things will soon get 
to going straight along, and then decent folks can live. 
The men folks have mismanage d\X\Q business long enough, 
but the wimmen folks must manage it hereafter. 

Granny Snarl. — Mrs. Lawrence will now express her 
views of the subject. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 181 

Kancy Lawrence. — You all know tbat what Sister 
Simpson has said is true Our country is in a deplorable 
condition, just on account of the mismanagement of the 
men folks now-a-days. Why, when my first husband, 
Mr. Whitecomb, was alive, I was happ}^ and had the 
good times. Ah ! I then had a kind companion ; he 
knew how to manage an' keep all strings a-pullin\ But 
times, alas ! have changed. I now have to look out, not 
only for number one, but for number two, also. I have 
to work like a dog, an' see to all the business myself, 
'cause if I didn't every thing'd go to rack and ruin. 
It's no use to arguefy the p'int — no use at all — some- 
thing's got to be done, and that something right straight 
off, as Sister Simpson says. I've no more to sa}-. Let 
deeds, not words, be our battle-cry. 

Granny Snarl. — We will now hear what Mr. Yilder- 
blows has to say on the subject. 

Simon Vilderblows. — Things is going on to ruin as 
fast as they can go, fellow-citizens, an' I'm most dread- 
fully afeard it's owing, as has been told you, to the mis-' 
management of us men folks. I, for one, approve of 
letting the women rule. Do this, and my word for't, 
things will get cheaper, and poor folks like us'll have 
some chance to live. Yes, my friends, pork is gettin* 
to be monstrous high. Bimeby w^e shan't have enough 
to put into baked beans, and then what shall we do ? I 
don't know what we shall do unless wc put in intch-knots 
instid of pork. Western pork, they say, is fattened on 
rattlesnakes, and who wants to eat serpents 'long o' 
their tea an' coffee ? As to raising our own pork, why, 
corn, p'taters, an' sich like, is so awful dear and skerse, 
that if it so happens we do have a little to spare, we're 
obliged to take it to buy West Injee goods, and so forth. 
Then if we kill our hogs in the full of the moon, it'll 
shrink, you know, and there, again, is a loss. I raised 
a nice spring pig this year, and t'other day, as we's most 
out o' meat, and he'd got to be fat's a poirpoise, I 
thought best to kill him. So I put on the water a-heat- 
in', got the scaldin' tub au' other things ready. Well, 
says I to John, my hired man, it's now full moon, an' 
some say'f you kill hogs on the full they won't shrink. 
But, however, says I, bein's tbe moon's so fur off, I'm 



182 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

pesky afeard she wont ke^p the pork from shrinking. 
But, John, there's one thing I do know, sa3^s I, and that 
is, if we scald him at just high tide, he wont lose an 
ounce by skrinkin'. Yes, says John, I know this to be 
true, for I've often seen it tried. Well, sii3^s I, I tell 
you what I'll do, John ; I'll let my sister — 3'ou know my 
sister, Widder Small, fellow-citizens, what keeps house 
for me — I'll let her take the almanac, an' watch the 
clock, an' when it's just high water, she'll sing out, an' 
we'll stick and souse the critter. So, to suit me, Sis- 
ter Small stuck a mark in our almanac — your old Rob- 
ert B.'s — where it told the high tide, an' took her station 
at the door. Well, when 'twas about high tide, John 
and I lugged out the water to the tub, an' caught the 
hog. Pretty soon Sister Small sings out " High tide 1" 
'Pon that I stuck him with a butcher-knife and he bled 
like a serpent. In with him, sa3'^s I. We then give him 
a rousin' scaldin' an' dressed an' weighed him. Well, 
next day I weighed him agin, an', dear me ! don't you 
think, lie^d shrunk ten pounds and a half! Something's 
to pay, says I. Into the house I hurried, and says I, 
Sister, get me the almanac, and let me see where you 
found, where't tells high water. The almanac was got. 
I looked into it where she'd put a mark, an' as true's 
my name is Simon Vilderblows, if she hadn't made a 
mistake an' got a last year's one ! This explains it all, 
sa3's I, and I've lost jest ten and a half pounds of nice, 
sweet pork by sister's not been keerful 'bout lookin' at 
the date. The schoolmaster happening along I told him 
my misfortins, an' he only smiled and said 'twas done 
by evaporation. I told him he had better stick to his 
Alh-ega, an' not talk of what he did'nt know nothing 
about. My friends, I've nothing more to sa3^ I feel 
that we are in a good cause, an' desarve success. 

Polly Simpson [/-mnc/]. — I should be pleased to hear 
something from our president. Sister Snarl, can't you 
say something for the good of the cause ? 

Granny Snarl. — Men folks, women folks, an' feller- 
citizens greetin ! \_She stops and blows her nose with 
a ragged red pocket-handkerchief when the hoys roar 
aloud.^ Stop yer larfin' up there'n the back seat 1 Ye 
Ain't but little better than heathen ! Wont some one 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 183 

that's a friend to woman's rights go an' larn them tar- 
nups what manners is, an' stop their disturbin' this 
meetin' ? 

Simon Yilderblows. — I hope you boys will be civil 
there on the back seat. 

Granny Snarl. — Feller-citizens, I would like to say 
a good deal, but you see I've got a terrible cold [^she 
coughs'] ; got it a killin' my hog, which, by the way, was 
a buster, for he weighed two hundred and thirty pounds 
arter he's dressed and his liver taken out. Hogs like 
that are skerse in these diggins, you'd better believe 
[the boys laugh]. There now ! it's jest as Sister Simpson 
has often said, the risin' gineration is an awful set of 
bein's. They don't know a mite better than to come to 
sech a solemn an' interestin' meetin' as this an' laif, un' 
haw haw, an' hee hee, jests if 'twas a circus, panorandle, 
or nigger concert. I've been afeared all along that if 
we wimmen folks didn't take the reins in our own hands 
there'd be war an' bloodshed an' every thing else that's 
bad. And jest what I'se afeard on has come to pass ; 
we've got inter trouble with our mother country, an' 
dear only knows when 'twill eend. I haint had a good 
dish o' Young Hyson this six months ; an' what's more, 
I never shall, unless we wimmen folks rise rite up an' let 
em know who's who and what's what. Then, as Sister 
Simpson, an' Sister Lawrence, and Brother Yilderblows 
have jest said, coffee's riz, sweetening's riz, an' every 
thing else we have to buy has riz accordingly ; and, fel- 
low-citizens, they'll keep goin' up, till bimeby we shall 
be on the town, and then who'll take keer o' the poor ? 
And what's to be done ? methinks I hear ye all ax. I'll 
tell 3'e what's to be done. Let the wimmen take charge 
on the government, put in some good lady, like Sister 
Simpson, here, for Town Clark, an' sech wimmen as Sis- 
ter Lawrence for Seleckmen and then if the men folks 
wants any of the small offices, sech as hog-reef or sur- 
veyor, why, vve'll let 'em have 'em provided they'll swear 
to support the constitution of the United States. Do 
this, and you'll see how quick sugar, molasses, and other 
West lujee goods would come down! 1 shan't ask for 
any office myself, 'cause I haint got much of a school 
edication, and I don't want to take sech responsibility 



184 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

on my poor shoulders : but then 3^e know my vote'll tell. 
Now, something has got to be done right a way — the 
sooner the better, Sister Simpson an' myself have talked 
the matter over and made up our minds to do some- 
tliing. 

Boy. — The President will pardon my interruption, I 
rise to move that a contribution be taken up to defray 
the expenses of this meeting. 

Another boy. — I second the motion. 

Granny Snarl. — Yer real kind, ye be! We'll now 
take a vote. All who's in favor of passin' round the 
hat to git money to pay for firewood, lights, an' sech 
like, will please say aye. 

All. — Aye ! aye ! 

Granny Snarl. — 'Tis a vote, sartin's the world. The 
gentleman who's so kind as to think of payin' expenses^ 
will he please carry round the hat, while Sister Simpson 
reads that little ditty she's writ for the occasion ! [Boy 
takes round the hat.'] Sister Simpson will now deliver 
the ditty. It's proper nice I kin tell ye, I've heard it 
once. 

Polly Simpson [reads in a loud, sharp voicel 

ODE IN BEHALF OP WIMMENS RIGHTS. 
The men are real obstrogolus, 

They wont mind their own biz- 
Iness, and that's the reason why 

That tea and lasses both has riz : 
And every thing that we do eat, 

And every thing that we do wear, 
Have got to be so awful high — 

What shall w^e do, I do declare ! 

Molasses once was four and six ; 

But now two dollars we must give ; 
And liquor, too, is such a price 

That tavern-keepers scarce can live ; 
And when last Sunday I'se at church, 

I heard Parson Jenkins in his 
Sermon say, that flour and corn, 

And ev(fry kind of thing has riz. ' 

Now don't you see the reason is 

The men are so obstropolus — 
They will not let tlie wimmen vote, 

And things; is growing worse and worse. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 18'5 

Now, we must rise and let 'em know 
What our rights be : and then, I guess, 

That all kinds of West Ingee goods 
In prices will grow less and less ! 

Now we have all met here to-night — ■ 

Sisters Lawrence, Snarl and I, 
And Mr. Yilderblows, and all 

The rest of us — to see and try 
To lay some plan to ease our lot 

And make things cheap, and make a law, 
Whereby all fighting shall be stopped, 

And never have another war. 

Now every woman that does live 

In any part of Greensboro,' 
Must rise on next town meeting day, 

And to the ballot-box must go : 
And then must vote — and then, I guess. 

Once more will have a good, brisk biz- 
Iness, and shall no longer hear, 

That every kind of thing has riz. 

[ The hoy who carried round the hat, now deposits its 
contents on the desk (contents being a promiscuous 
mixture of buttons, nails, chips, and just five large 
coppers), and says to the President ;] 

Boy. — The amount of money is not so great as I 
hoped to get, but still there's sufficient to pay the ex- 
pense of oil and candles. And here let me say, I feel 
assured, that when the community shall awaken to a 
full sense of the importance of the glorious cause in 
which you, our honored President, and your patriotic 
colleagues, have so nobly engaged, they will rally around 
3^our bright banner, and put forward this great work 
toward its final consummation. That your praiseworthy 
and disinterested eflTorts may be crowned with ultimate 
success, is the heartfelt hope of your humble servant. — . 
\_Bowing, retires.'] 

Granny Snarl. — Bless ye! you're a noble-hearted 
creetur I \_Putting the money in her pocket, and with her 
hand sweeping the buttons, etc., off the desk.~\ If all the 
men-folks was sich as you be, there 'd be no need of us 
wimmen-folks takin' matters in hand. 

Polly Simpson. — The President had better put the 
funds in the hando of the collector, and let him settle the 



186 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

bills. He has already proved himself an honest and 
patriotic soul. Let him be our treasurer, by all means. 

Granny Snarl. — Oh, I kin take keer on the funds 
myself 

Polly Simpson. — But 'twould be better to do as I 
have suggested. 

Granny Snarl. — I tell ye I kin take keer of it m\ - 
self 

Polly Simpson. — I know you'd take care of it, and 11 
such a way as wouldn't benefit the society. 

Granny Snarl. — What's that I D'ye think I'm in- 
clined to cheat the public ? [Granny shakes her fist.'] 

Polly Simpson. — 1 haint said it. 

Granny Snarl. — Well, ye mean it, if ye haint said it. 

Polly Simpson. — Yes, madam, I do mean it, and 
say it, too. I wouldn't trust you any further than T can 
see you. I've heard, 'fore now, of people's stealin' lard 
and flax ; but I wont call names, for that aint my natur. 

Granny Snarl. — Yer a miserable, low-lived, sharp- 
nosed, old scamp I You not only want wimmen's rights 
in gineral, but ye mean to take away my rights, too. 
Accuse me of stealin' right afore folks,, do ye ? I'll fix 
ye, you old Satin, one o' these days ! 

Nancy Lawrence. — I call the house to order ! 

Granny Snarl. — Better call that old pirate to order I 

Polly Simpson. — I call the president to order ! 

Granny Snarl. — Call me to order, hey ? Now comes 
the time for reckonin' old lady ! [springing toward Folly.] 

All. — Order ! order ! order ! 

All. — Adjourn ! adjourn ! adjourn I 



THE ORPHAN'S TRUST. 

Scene. — A gipsy camp in the background. A young 
girl discovered in the act of withdrawing her hand 
from that of the Gipsy Queen. 

Gipsy. — 
Not care to know your future, blue-eyed maiden? 
Who lovefi you, vjham you love, and whom shall wed? 
What laces, satins, jewels, he will ^^ivu you ; 
What acres, palaces and rentals, leave you; 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 187 

How rich must be her thoughts, how treasure-laden ; 
To crowd such common hopes and dreams from that young, 
golden head ! 

Maiden. — 

Ah ! gipsey, but I love ! I love, dark sister ! 

The hand I worship robed this earth with bloom : 

His glory clothes each far off, wandering planet ; 

Yet loving eyes in tiniest flowers may scan it, 

And, with sweet fervency of heart, adore ! 

Thus my sweeet mother taught me; living, dying: 

And, passing hence, so wide she left the door 

Of that fair upper world, I scarce have missed her, 

Or grieved her 'midst the songs of Heaven with crying: 

So smiles Our Father's grace, e'en on the darksome tomb I 

Gipsy. — 

Thrice happy maid ! my love is all unneeded, 

Where faith and love like thine, assure the heart ! 

Yet deem by sooth, for common human feelings. 

Your starry gems have true and bright revealings. 

And, though full oft, through idle scorn unheeded, 

The voice of God and fate, speaks through my mystic art I 



MRS. SMITH'S BOARDER. 

CHARACTERS. 

George Washington Wiggins. Mrs. Jane Sm/th. 



Scene. — A room in Mrs. Smithes boarding-house. 
George Washington Wiggins discovered. 
Wiggins. — Well, I'm getting considerably in debt, 
and something must be done to raise the wind. Here's 
my new coat not paid for, and my pantaloons are get- 
ting somewhat seedy. I got a hole knocked in my hat 
t'other day, and I ought to have a new one ; but, reall}^ 
I can't see how I'm going to raise the money to pur- 
chase the desired article. Beside this, Mrs. Smith is 
continually growling about her board bill; and, really, 
that is a little bill I ought to settle. I certainly w^ould 
fork ever if I had the tin, but where 's the tin to come 



188 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

from ? That's the question. I suppose the bill will 
amount to some forty or fift^^ dollars by this time, and 
if I don't square up, I may expect to be required to 
travel pretty shortly, and leave " ray bed and board," 
as the advertisements say. Something must be done, 
that's certain ! I guess I'll carry my watch to a pawn- 
l)roker's, and try to raise a little money for present 
purposes. [Knock at the door.^ Come in. [Enter Mr><. 
Smith.'] Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Smith ? Really, I 
am delighted to see you. Here, take this chair. Sit 
down, sit down ; never mind me, 1 can stand. [Mrs. 
Smith sits.] It gives me great pleasure, Mrs. Smith, to 
receive a friendly call from you. How is j^our rheumat- 
ism this morning ? 

Mrs. Smith. — Oh, somewhat better. But, Mr. Wig- 
gins, I have brought in your bill. I have no doubt you 
are prepared to liquidate it this morning? 

Wiggins. — Let me see it if j'ou please, Mrs. Smith. 
[ Takes bill and reads.] George Washington Wiggins, 
to Mrs. Jane Smith, Dr. To ten weeks board, at four 
dollars and fifty cents, forty-five dollars. 

Mrs. Smith. — All right, is it ? 

Wiggins. — Oh, yes, it's all right, I guess ; but really, 
Mrs. Smith, I am not prepared to settle up this morning. 

Mrs. Smith. — Not prepared ! Mr. Wiggins, didn't 
3^ou say 3^ou would most certainly settle on Saturday 
morning, and isn't this Saturday morning? 

Wiggins. — Yes, Mrs. Smith, I must confess that this 
is Saturday morning, but this Saturday morning like 
last Saturday morning, finds me almost strapped, if I 
may be allowed to use that not very nice but very ex- 
pressive word. If 3^ou will bear with me a few days 
longer, my dear Mrs. Smith, I think I will be enabled 
to square up. 

Mrs. Smith. — A few days longer! That's what you 
said last week and the week before. But I want you to 
understand that I will not wait a few days longer. A 
few days longer, indeed ! That's exactly what you said 
one month ago, and what you have said every time since 
when I asked you to settle up. I tell you, Mr. Wiggins, 
I can't be expected to board people for nothing. It 
takes money to set my table and hire my cook j it takes 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 189 

money to buy coal and oil and the thousands of other 
things necessaiy for keeping a boarding-house. 

Wiggins. — That's ver}^ true, Mrs. Smith ; xery true. 
1 expect some money soon, and if you will give me one 
Areek more, I'll endeavor to settle in that time. 

Mrs. Smith. — Not another day, Mr. Wiggins! But 
I have a proposition to offer, which, perhaps, will 
stra"ghten matters. 

Wiggins. — Let us hear the proposition. Any thing 
to straighten matters will be listened to attentively by 
me. 

Mrs Smith. — Well, the offer I have to make, will en- 
tirely clear you of your indebtedness to me if 3^ou accept 
it. 

Wiggins. — Good, kind, indulgent Mrs. Smith ! What 
an amiable woman you are ! Let us have the offer. 
Make all possible haste and let us hear it. I would be 
a hardened wretch, indeed, to decline. 

Mrs. Smith. — Well, Mr. Wiggins, the proposition is 
that you consent to be my husband. 

Wiggins [^aside^. — Did mortal ever ! What's the 
world coming to ? 

Mrs. Smith. — I will confess, Mr. Wiggins, there is no 
great and undying love for you in my heart, such as 
young persons have, or imagine they have, when they 
think of entering the state of matrimony. I am not the 
least bit sentimental. The days of sentimentalism with 
me have passed away ; but I have come to the conclu- 
sion that I ought to have a husband. I find that it is 
very hard to oversee every thing about the house, and 
I know a man who understood his business would con- 
siderably lessen m}^ labors ; and, beside this, if I was 
married again, I would feel more contented and happy 
than I have felt since my dear Smith left me. Now, if 
you accept the offer, I will forgive you your debt and 
will give you your boarding free. You shall also have an 
allowance large enough to keep you in clothes and such 
nick-nacks as this [^pointing to his meerschaum']. But 
remember, I will expect yon to superintend the market- 
ing, do the carving, and take whatever labor off my 
hands I may wish. 

Wiggins laside']. — They say Mr. Smith led a very 



190 SCHOOLBAY DIALOGUES. 

hen-pecked sort of a life, and I'm sure I'm not going to 
step into his shoes. [To 3frs. Smith,'] Really — I — I — ■ 
Mrs. Smith, I thank you for your flattering offer, but it 
is very unexpected — very. To tell the iruth, Mrs, 
Smith, it came like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. 
1 would, therefore, like to have a few days to consider 
the matter. You know it is of the utmost importance 
that we consider well before we take a step that can 
never be retraced. I hope you will give me a few days 
to think the matter over, before I give my answer. 

Mrs. Smith. — And while 3^ou were thinking, you would 
be living at my expense. Not a day will 1 give you, 
Mr. Wiggins. Let me have your answer now, fair and 
square. If you reject the offer, I will send you to jail 
for debt inside of two hours. 

Wiggins [aside']. — Here's a fix! I'm cornered, and 
there seems to be no getting out. What an old dragon 
she is to think of sending me to jail, simply because I 
don't happen to have a little bit of filthy lucre about 
me. [To Mrs. Smith.] Well, Mrs. Smith, i'have thought 
the matter over, and have concluded to accept your very 
flattering offer. 

Mrs. Smith. — All right, Mr. Wiggins. I thought 
you would look at the matter in a proper light, and act 
as a sensible man. 

Wiggins. — But Mrs. Smith, you will not require the 
sacrifice — oh — ah — I beg pardon. You will not wish to 
make me the happy man for five or six months yet, will 
you? 

Mrs. Smith. — Five or six months ! Why, Mr. Wig- 
gins, I need you now I The marketing and all the 
other work is laborious, and I have been thinking for 
some time past, of hiring a man to attend to the things 
about the house. No, Mr. Wiggins, the matter can not 
be deferred so long. You may be prepared for the 
event in two weeks from next Tuesday. 

Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday ! [Aside.] 
Oh, dear! [To Mrs. Smith.] Why, Mrs. 'Smith, that 
will not give you time to get the new dresses, etc. 

Mrs. Smith. — New dresses, pooh ! I aint going to 
bother myself about new dresses. I've got an old black 
silk, whi^h, when it is fixed up a little, will look charm- 



SCHOOLDAY DIAX^OGUES. 191 

ingly. But I must be down stairs again. Make your- 
self comfortable here, Mr. Wiggins, and remember the 
da3" of our wedding is two weeks from next Tuesday. 
[Exit 3Irs. Smith.'] 

Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday ! Isn't it 
awful to think of it ? Most men feel happy when the 
wedding-day is so near. I don't ! I'm a miserable dog. 
Now if it was onl}- Celesta Ann Jones I was going to 
be tied to in two weeks, I could bear it. In fact, 1 be- 
lieve I could place my hand on my heart and say I was 
the happiest fellow in creation. Can't do that now 
though 1 I'm a sacrificed man if I marry Mrs. Smith. 
But [with a sudden dete lamination'] I ivont marry her I 
How could I, when visions of hen-pecked husbands are 
continually floating before my eyes? How could I so 
far forget myself, as to leave m}^ darling Celesta Ann 
and jump into the sea of squalls with Mrs. Smith ? 
Can't do it — I wont do it ! But how am I going to help 
myself? That's the rub. Can't go to jail! Celesta 
Ann would never look at me again if I did; and, be- 
sides this, I'm too well raised to live on bread and 
water. I can't run away — it would be of no use. I 
would be nabbed before two days I I know Mrs. Smith's 
vindictive disposition wxU. She wouldn't allow me to 
escape — she would follow me to the ends of the earth. 
[After a pause.] I have it ! I'll act insane — I'll be 
overjoyed with the bargain — so much so, that reason 
will take her flight. Ha, ha ! aint I a lucky dog ? Now 
to commence. [ Takes off his coat and turns it ; after 
which he commences to shout, and kick the tables and chairs 
around.] Hello! hello! Mrs. Smith — Smith — Smith — - 
Mrs. Smith ! Fire, tire, thieves, fire, murder, fire, fire, 
murder! Mrs. Smith— Smith — Smith — Mrs. Smith- 
come quick ! 

Mrs. Smith [entering]. — Why, Mr. Wiggins, what's 
the matter? You frightened me. Where's the fire? 
Where's the thieves ? 

Wiggins. — George Washington Wiggins, the Presi- 
dent of the United States, speaks to you. Be very quiet. 
I have arrayed myself in a new coat — coat cost twenty- 
two dollars — and I am about to deliver m^^ inaugural. 
[Stands on a chair.] But, Mrs. Wiggins, that is to say, 



192 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. Smith, as used to be, I am a happj?- man. I am 
about to enter the state sometimes denominated matri- 
mony. It becomes me then, as the Emperor of France, 
to say that I think 

Mrs. Smith. — Keall3^ the man's demented. Mr. Wig- 
gins ! Mr. Wiggins ! what is the matter ? Do come 
down stairs and have a cup of tea ; it will do you good. 
[Aside.'] His mind isn't very strong when it's so easily 
upset. [To Mr. Wiggins.'] Come, Mr. Wiggins, you 
will ruin the furniture. Do come down and have a cup 
of tea. 

Wiggins.— Come down ! No, indeed ; not I ! "To 
this point V\\ stand," as Shakspeare says. I'm a mar- 
ried man row. and I'm not going to be coaxed and ruled 
by women. I'll show the world that I'm not a hen-pecked 
husband, such as the world believes me. I'll show the 
world that I'm no John Smith. I'll show the world, 
that when I say, " Mrs. Smith, go to market !" Mrs. 
Smith will go instantly. [_Becomes calmer.] Mrs. Smith, 
I am slightty nervous to-day. To tell the truth, I am so 
completely overjoyed at the prospect of becoming your 
husband, that it has caused reason to totter on her 
throne. Take care, Mrs. Smith, I feel it coming on 
again. Ladies and gentlemen, I appear before you this 
evening to debate the question, " Should woman have 
eqnal rights with man ?" and I find myself altogether 
unprepared to do the subject justice. [_Dances round 
the room.] Tol de dol de dol de do, tol de rol de dol 
de da. Mrs. Smith, will ,you honor me with your hand 
in the next dance ? I think it was time we were en- 
deavoring to thread the mazes of the graceful cotillion. 
Come on, Mrs. Wiggins — as is to be — come on, fair com- 
panion of my future life. 

Mrs. Smith \_aside]. — The man is completely insane. 
\_To Wiggins.] Do leave the house, Mr. Wiggins ; you 
will alarm the whole neighborhood. 

Wiggins. — Leave the house, Mrs. Smith! What do 
you mean ? Have you not consented to be my wife, and 
are we not to be married to-morrow? 

Mrs. Smith. — No, no, no ! I have no notion whatever 
of marrying you. Marry a crazy man ? Never I Do 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 193 

be kind enough to leave the house, and I'll forgive you 
the debt. 

Wiggins. — Mrs. Smith, I couldn't think of it! Would 
you be so cruel as to wreck my happiness in this manner ? 
Didn't you promise to be my wife, and didn't you en- 
gage me to do the marketing? 

Mrs. Smith. — Yes, but I have changed my mind, and 
will remain single for a while. Come, hurry out of the 
house and I'll say no more about the board bill. 

Wiggins. — Thanks, thanks, Mrs. Smith; that board 
bill has weighed heavily on my mind for some time past. 
I will go, Mrs. Smith — and believe me, I part from you 
with feelings of sincere regret. [_Pretends to weep.^ I 
will send a boy for my baggage, and will come and foot 
the bill when my head gets a little more settled, and 
after I have succeeded in getting into some kind of 
business. But, Mrs. Smith, let us have a hop before 
I leave — come. 

Mrs. Smith [^aside']. — This fit is coming on him again, 
and he may become dangerous. Mr. Wiggins, do leave 
the house. 

Wiggins. — I'm going, madam ; I'm going. Tol de 
lol de lol de la. [Dances round the room — and exit.'] 

Mrs. Smith. — Well, it's lucky I've got him started. 
I'm glad I found him out as soon as I did. It would 
have been awful to have been tied for life to a crazy man. 
I've lost his board bill, but that's nothing in comparison 
with the trouble I would have endured had I married 
him. 

Wiggins [putting his head in the door]. — Never mind 
the board bill, Mrs. Wiggins. I'll make that all right 
some day. 

Mrs. Smith. — Well, well; all right. But hurry off, 
Mr. Wiggins, or you may take another spell. 

Wiggins. — No danger of that, Mrs. Smith ; but F'm 
off. Good-by. [Exit Wiggins.] 

,„ [Curtain fdlls.'} 



■H 



194 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



LA TEUNE MALADE. 

[The daughter's part in this httle colloquy, is from the 
French of Andre Chenier. It is intended for peasant costumes 
of Normandy. The mother seated beside the chair of her sick 
daughter, is occupied in making lace.] 



Scene. — Enter Julie, a child of ten. 

Julie. — Good-evening, Marie I 
Marie. — Welcome, little coz. ! 

Mother. — Welcome, sweet child ! you come in a happy 
hour I 

Julie. — I've brought some flowers for Marie, auntie, 
dea,r. \_Julie fastens a spray of lily of the valley to 
Mfovie^s cap, and goes on to say^ : " Sweets to the sweet," 
" Herself the fairest flower." 

[^The little cousin here courtesies and trips away. 
Ilarie looks at the flowers, holds up a white rose 
and begins to speak.'] 
Marie. — 
See, mamma ! See this rose of stainless snow I 
Like this my cheek is chill and marble white : 
Thus droop my languid eyes, while my young brow 
From heaven's fair sunshine turns, and prays for night ' 
Because I feel the gall of vain desire, 
Well o'er my sick heart, like a veil of fire : 
Fainting and exiled here my footsteps rove ; 
God keep thee, mother ! we shall meet above I 

Mother. — 
Nay, darling ! Lay these gloomy thoughts aside I 
In May, our Greta comes, a blooming bride : 
Look forward love to joyous festal hour. 
When wearing wreaths of freshly-knotted flowers, 
With gleam of gold amidst thine auburn curls, 
Thou'lt walk a bridesmaid 'midst our loveliest girls. 

Marie. — 

These freshly-knotted flowers, this bracelet fair 
I clasped so proudly, the gay masque, the ball, 
Where whispered voices praised my step and air^ 
They chai-m no longer; smiles seem mockery all. 
My spirit trembles with the leaf that leaps 
Down where the still lake, lapped in silence, sleeps; 
My spirit flutters with the ascending dove: 
Adi/>u, sweet mamma ! I am thine above I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 195 

Mother. — 

Mine ever ! wliora to this fair home and me, 

To be ovir joy and pride, the Master gave ! 

1 can not yield her from these arms of love. 

To the dark bosom of the gloomy grave ! 

Thou must not go, my darling ! young and bright 

With all youth's grace and charm, thou must not die i 

No heart is lonely in your worlds of light. 

And Heaven hath not such need of thee as I ! 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 

[Let Night be personated by a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl 
dressed in iDlack, wearing a crown of crescent and stars of silver, 
and a vail also spangled with stars. 

Let Morning be represented by a blue-eyed girl with blonde 
or golden hair, wearing a white dress with a sash of white and 
blue, with a necklace and bracelet of white beads and a garland 
of opening buds.] 

Night. — Canopied with shadows, and attended hy 
the fair moon and gentle stars, 1 come to earth, bringing 
dew for the flowers and rest for the weary. 

I am not silent, and my voices, though still and small, 
are doubly powerful. 

I have sheltered all the young birds in their nests, 
and childhood, forgetful of its mirth, has sunk into soft 
slumbers. The daylight toil is ended, and I have brought 
the father home to his loved ones. 

Beautiful, holy is my reign. A thousand ages gone 
men looked upon and loved my starlit countenance. 

On the far hills of Judea I dispensed visions of glory 
to watching shepherds and rapt prophets. 

How was I beloved by the parents of mankind when 
in the garden of Kden they slept in the blooming bowers 
of innocence! Then the stars sang together for joy, and 
tlie moon gleamed silvery soft on rock and tree, stream 
and fountain, and the fair, sweet face of Eve looked up- 
ward to the sk}^ in sinless gladness. 

My moon, beautiful, though ever changing, that glit- 
tered over Solomon's temple in all its glory, and over 
the lowly stable in the town of Bethlehem, when the 
star-guided shepherds worshiped there, now lights mil- 



196 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

lions of worshipers to the house of God in the stillness 
of Sabbath evenings. 

The poet adores me, for there is something in my 
shadowy mantle, my starrj^ canopy, and my sweet, low 
voice that harmonizes with his holiest dreams. 

The Christian loves me well, for in the meditation of 
my quiet hours the light of immortality shines clear and 
undimmed. 

I look into human hearts and spy out secrets the day- 
time never dreamed of, holy and sad, and deep and 
sacred to memory. 

It is mine to kiss down the pale eyelids of the broken- 
hearted, and give to their spirits sweet visions born of 
sweeter memories. 

What though I bear not with me the song and bloom 
of morning, the dazzling splendor of the snn, nor its 
beams that glitter on the waves like diamonds, I show 
the many worlds that are unseen by day far off and 
beautiful, and there are the vales of never-dying flowers, 
and the fountains of living waters. 

Far along that shining pathway they go who seek the 
portals of the celestial city. 

I say to the children of men that here are the shadows 
of the tomb, there all is light, here death walks beside 
love, there is the reign of love only. 
To mortals I teach " holy lesssons 
Of the hopes unto sorrow given, 
That spring' through the gloom of the darkest hours, 
Looking alone to Heaven." 

Morning. — Rejoice, oh earth ! I come to thee in my 
glowing loveliness, radiant and glad as when first I 
awoke on thy face at the voice of God. 

The tender buds that crown me unfold their leaves but 
to fling forth odors sweet as if born in heaven, and with 
my light upon them the dews of night become pearls. 

I have smiled on the far off isles of the sea, and poured 
a golden light over gushing fountains, the echoes of 
whose many waters gladden distant solitudes. 

As my silver car mounts the horizon, every breeze 
spreads its pinion to flutter forth its joy, and many sweet 
voiced birds soar upward and sing after the angels teach- 
ing the <2:lad and I'lorious anthem of nature. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 19T 

Darkness is lost ; shadows vanish ; light that is 
beauty, light that is poetry, light that gleams from 
heaven and is divine, reign, and sorrow is vanquished ; 
for weeping, may endure for a night, but joy cometh 
with the morning. 

Blithe are the voices now, when rosy, bright-ej-ed 
children awake to the sound of the loving mother's voice 
among the beautiful homes of the world's many lands. I 
am an acknowledofcd blessinor to all, and darkness flies 
before my face from country to country. For thee, oh 
Earth ! I wear the same sweet smile I wore when I heard 
thy Maker's voice pronounce thee good. And never 
since my birth have I refused my light to th^e save when 
on Calvary that dread scene was enacted at which I 
turned away, and shrouded all my beams in sorrow. 

But the luster of my youth was renewed on the morn- 
ing of the resurrection, when on a world of sin had 
dawned the Sun of Righteousness^ Death was van- 
quished, and I, a type of the morning land, was seen in 
saintly visions beyond the tombs, and "there should be 
no Night there." 

I have been the loved and welcomed for ages past, 
I will be the beloved for ages to come. I shall be the 
glorified in the land of the hereafter. 



SCANDAL ON THE BRAIN. 

CHARACTER^. 
Emma. Sue, Lizzie. Fan. Aunt Hakding. 



Emma [is alone, she yawns, throws aside her work, and 
exclaims'], Oh, dear! oh, dear! How lonesome I am ! I 
do wish the girls would come soon, it's so dull since the 
Fair, and I'm dying to hear some news ! I suppose 
Aunt Harding would lecture me soundl}' if she heard 
me say the like. There's the bell! The}^ are coming 
now. [Enter Sue and Lizzie, Emma runs to greet them.'] 
Oh, I am delighted to see you ! Why did 3'ou not come 
sooner ? 1 have been almost ready to perish with ennui. 
Le"^ m* h?.ve your hats. 



198 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Lizzie. — I don't know as it is hardly worth while for 
the time we will stay ; Sue, what do you say ? 

Sue. — Yes, Lizzie, let's stay a little while. You know 
it has been an age since we've been here. I have a fancy 
handkerchief to hem, and I heard 3^ou say you had your 
tatting collar in your pocket. 

Emma. — Oh, that will be just the thing! Stay all the 
afternoon with me I Mamma went out to make some 
calls and I am alone — we will have just the coziest kind 
of a time I What's the news? It's so dull! I wished 
at dinner that some one's house would catch a-fire, and 
ma scolded me awfully for being so wicked. 

Sue. — Why were you not at the party last evening? 

Emma. — I did not feel well, and mamma would not 
hear to my going. It was such a disappointment 1 
Who was there ? How was every one dressed ? Tell 
me all about it ? 

Sue. — Well, first, Lizzie and I were there, then there 
were the Trac^^s, and the Cannons, Miss Williams and 
Mr. Holland, Mr. and Mrs. St. John, and Mrs. St. John's 
sister. 

Emma. — Why, I did not know they were home from 
their tour. 

Lizzie. — Yes ; and Mrs. St. John w'as dressed so 
handsomely I 

Emma. — I wonder if she is in debt for her beautiful 
clothes ? 

Sue. — I'm sure, I don't know. Then there was a Mr. 
Furgison with them, and Mrs. St. John told Mr. Lee 
that he is quite a catch, wealthy and handsome. 

Emma. — Struck He, I suppose. That's the way people 
come by fortunes now-a-days. 

Lizzie. — Emma Gather, you are for ever turning up 
your nose at people I What's the difference how on© 
comes b3^ a fortune, so he has it ? 

Emma. — Yes, and you go into ecstasies over a man if 
he has a little money and a mustache, and pronounce 
him distinguished looking I Oh 1 

Sue. — Now, Emma, you are too bad. Indeed, Mr. 
Furgison has a splendid set of whiskers, and father was 
speaking of him to-day, and he said he was talented be- 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 199 

side belonging to one of the oldest and wealthest fami- 
lies in Virginia. I'm going to pitch in for him. 

E:mma. — Success to you ; so he has good sense and 
is not one of the shoddies, and his handkerchief is not 
scented with coal oil, he will do. Oh! there goes the 
bell ! I wonder who is coining ! [Goes and returns luith 
Fannie. 2 

^ Sue. — I'll bet it's Fan. Butts. You know she said she 
was coming. 

Emma. — It's Fan., girls. She has come to stay all the 
afternoon, too ! Give me 3^our things, and take this chair. 

Lizzie. — Wh3% you dear girl, how d'3^e ! Take this fan. 

Sue. — How did you enjoy the party last evening? 

Fan. — Tip-top! Supper was splendid, wasn't it? 
Didn't the Dumfreys try to put on style ? 

Lizzie. — Did 3'ou get acquainted with that MissBituer ? 

Fan. — Yes, I noticed Morris trying to shine around 
her. Don't he go ahead of an}- one you ever saw to 
Jlii^t f Every strange young lady that comes to the 
city he must be her gallant ! He is so conceity, too ! 

Sue. — They saj' he is abominably stingy, but has good 
habits. 

Fan. [ironically']. — Yes, so are the habits of most young 
gents ! 

Lizzie. — He came honestly by his stinginess. His 
father was so before him. Whj', girls, pa saj^s the wig old 
Mr. Morris wears is one his brother, who nas been dead 
ten 3-ears, used to w^ear. After he died Morris took it 
to save buying a new one. 

Emma. — I do wonder if it is true ! I suppose the old 
gentleman was buried in his bald head 

Fan. — Oh, Emma ! 

Emma. — Was Grace at the party? 

Sue. — Yes, and don't j^ou think Captain Blair was her 
escort ! I was perfectl^^ surprised ! 

Emma. — Well/ I am astonished ! I thought he was 
not countenanced in society at all. I suppose, then, 
Grace will not discard him. Just like her, though. She 
said to me one da\' when I was giving her his pedigree, 
that she thought he was naturallj^ good, that there was 
something fine about him, and that he tried to do what 
was right, and so on. Bah ! She is too smart for him I 



200 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Sue. — Smart I I say she's a milksop I J never heard 
of her doing any thing wonderful ! 

Lizzie. — Why, Sue, how dare you express yourself 
so about an authoress! She writes beautifully 1 She 
has written one or two effusions for the Repository, and 
the editor of one of the juvenile periodicals hails her con- 
tributions with delight, I've heard. 

Sue. — Bah ! I've read her spoutings ! I can write 
as well as she any day. She is just a shallow little girl, 
and believes herself illustrious 

Lizzie. — Now girls, I wont hear another word I You 
all know she paints well and sings sweetly 

Emma. — Daubs brightly, and screams loudly, you 
mean ; her voice, instead of being '' sweet as a nightin- 
gale's," is strong as — onions ! 

Fan. — Well, gals, let me tell you the johe on her. 

Girls. — Oh, yes I The joke I tell us ! tell us I 

Fan.^ — Well, if you will promise not to tell on me. I 
wouldn't have it come to their ears that I told it for 
any thing ! 

Girls. — We all promise I 

Fan. — Never to tell on me ? 

Girls, — Never ! 

Fan. — Well, last week some young ladies sent Capt. 
Blair a bar of soap, to wash Grace's neck and ears ! 

Emma. — Not so loud ! Aunt Harding will surely 
hear ! [ The girls laugh.'] 

Sue. — Now, Fan., you don't mean to say that's true ? 

Fan. — Of course, it's true I 

Lizzie. — Well, it's too bad I Grace is careless, but 
not so bad as that. 

Emma. — I say it's good ! 

Sue. — Who were the young ladies? 

Fan. — Oh, I mus'n't tell that I I wonder if 

Emma. — That makes me think of Miss Orton. Have 
you heard the report on her ! 

Girls. — No ! No ! do tell us I 

Emma. — I thought every one knew it! The othei 
evening she was standing at the gate, where she boards, 
talking with Bob Brandon, and he kissed her I It was 
bright moonlio:ht, and some folks across the street ?aw 
them 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 201 

Fan.— Oh ! that is horrible ! 

Sue. — Why, he is the hardest case in town I I would 
not believe she would speak to him ! 

Lizzie. — Only think ! He plays billiards and drinks, 
and is a gambler, too ! 

Fan. — But girls do you believe it ? 

Lizzie. — I do. I never could bear her anyhow ! 

Sue. — I believe it ! 

Fan. — I don't ; for, Miss Cassell is very intimate with 
her, and she told me 'that this Bob Brandon goes with 
Miss Thomas, who lives the very next door to Miss 
Orton, and you know a mistake might be made easilj^, 
besides I heard her say not long since, that Miss Orton 
only knew Brandon b}^ sight. 

Emma. — Where there is smoke there is fire. 

Lizzie. — Speaking of Miss Cassell — ma was there to 
tea last~iveek, and she said she never sat down to such 
a table in her life. She could hardly find enough to 
satisfy her appetite ! besides, they had no napkins nor 
individual salts ; both of which are awful. 

Emma. — S'pose we all go there to tea some afternoon I 

Fan. — Oh, girls, I have a capital idea ! It just struck 
me ! Let's form an inquisitive club ! 

Girls. — Inquisitive club 1 What's that ? Something 
new? 

Fan. — You see, I just thought of it. When I was in 
Lawrence last summer, the girls had such a club. 

Emma. — Not so loud. Aunt Harding will surely hear I 

Fan. — Who cares for Auntie ! [in a lower tone.'] We 
met once a week at one of the girl's houses. No gentle- 
men were admitted, so they gave it the name of scandal 
circle — all of spite you know, and we had the most fun 
at those meetings ever you heard of? 

Emma. — But what did 3^ou do ? 

Fan. — AVhy every member was a committee of one to 
find out all she could about every body's business. We 
were posted on every thing that was going on. We 
knew all the reports in circulation ; what girls were en- 
gaged, and who were not ; we knew who every body cor- 
responded with, how much every one was in debt — no 
one was spared, from the minister's wife down. We 
dissected every one, and the girl that could give the most 



202 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

information in the most comical manner, was the best 
fellow, and every one who failed paid a fine. 

Lizzie. — That would be gay ! But I don't think ma 
would approve of it. 

Sue. — That's Lizzie for you, afraid of ma ! 

Emma. — Don't let ma know an}^ thing about it. 

Fan. — No, you little goose, that's the fun of it. But 
the best part was our practical jokes ! We played some 
of the richest ones, I must tell you. — [Aunt Harding, an 
old fashioned old woman, with cap and spectacles on 
rushes in, with her knitting, etc., very much excited.'] 
Well, gals, if I ever ! I didn't mean to hear what you 
said but I couldn't help it! — [Girls look at each other 
scared.'] Miss Emily what do 3^ou spose your mar 
would say if she'd a' heerd you talking 'bout folks as 
you've bin a' doin' this arternoon ? Say! 

Emma.^ — Don't, Auntie ! Do be still, we were only in 
fun. 

Auntie. — I wont be still. I tell you, you're all given 
over to the wrath to come if j^ou don't mend your wa3^s. 

Emma [aside]. — I knew Auntie would hear us, what 
will I do ? 

Auntie. — I heerd what ye was a' sayin' about the 
party, 'bout what folks had on an' this one an' that one 
an' t'other, 'bout one feller bein' stingy an' 'bout Miss 
Lane, an' the Lord knows she's smarter than any of ye 
— Miss Cassell's mar didn't have enough fur [turning to 
Lizzie] your mar to eat, did she ? I think she must 
have an awful stomach. 

Emma. — Auntie, please don't. 

Auntie. — I wont please [turns to Fan~], but when ye 
come to talk as ye did 'bout an insquisitive club 1 could 
Stan' it no longer 1 Findin' out olher folks' business, 
medlin' things that ye are — I think 3^e'd better be to 
hum mendin' the holes in yev stockin's or helpin' yer 
mar's wash dishes ! ThaVs what / thinks on't ! Dissec- 
tin'' the poor creeturs, too ! oh my ! what on airth ye comin' 
to ! Even the minister's family ! Insquistion club ! 
When /was a gal what would folks said at us if we 
had done the like o' this! I'll tell your par I will Emel- 
ine Gather. It's bad enough for ole' wimmin' folks to 
talk, but I'll dt^clare on it, if ye can't beat 'em all! 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 203 

Emma. — Oh, Auntie, do please be still — girls, never 
mind. 

Fan. — Don't mind us. Emma, we deserve it all. 

Auntie. — Desarve it all an' more too. I should think 
the men folks would call it scandal circle. I'd advise ye 
to form a young ladies female wimmin folks prayer- 
meeting circle, instead of scandalizing this way. 

Sue. — Yes, Emma, we have been talking about every 
body awfully, hut I'm sure J meant no harm. 

Lizzie. — Nor I. I am sorry that I forgot the Golden 
Rule for an instant. 

Ean. — And the Inquisitive club ! It was lots of fun, 
but when I turn it round and think of it as Aunt Har- 
ding does, it is ridiculous ! Oh, I am ashamed to re- 
member that I proposed such a thing ! 

Emma. — Girls ! 1 do believe we have been suffering 
this afternoon with scandal on the brain. 

Auntie. — I guess so, too, gals. 

Girls. — Yes, scandal on the brain ! that must be 
what ails us, and if the audience, and Aunt Harding 
will fo^rgive us, we pledge ourselves \^they join hands'] 
hereafter to speak well of our friends and say nothing 
of our enemies. 

Auntie. — I'll forgive ye with all my heart, gals 
[^steps in front of the girls'] ; I guess this is not the only 
Insquistion club in the world, nor these the onl}^ ones 
with " scandal on the hrain.^^ an' I would advise all per- 
sons to " mind their own business" if they don't want to 
catch the orful disease! \_Cur tain falls.] 



THE COMMON BOND. 

Page. — 

Who are you, my little neighbor, 
Wandering in the woods so late ? 
Oft I've seen you at your labor, 
Loitering near the garden-gate. 

Peasant-girl. — 

I'm the Miller Martin's daughter : 
Gentle Page, I crave your pardon, 
If I never stopped to heed you, 
Lingering near the Countess' garden. 



204 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 

Mine the task to weed the borders, 
Mine, the strawberries to gather ; 
Yours, to serve your lady's orders, 
Or iinhelm her noble father. 
Yet believe, oh, stately boy ! 
Dressed in rich and gay profusion, 
Satin scarf and velvet cap. 
Plume and tress in bright confusion ; 
Mine as light a heart as thine. 
Songs as blithe, and sleep as tender I 

Page. — 

Yes, my little cottage-maid ! 
For this grace our thanks we render. 
Daily at our mistress' board. 
Nightly at the chapel shrine. 
Thanks and praise our hearts afford. 
That thy lot is blest as mine ; 
That the rich and poor, as one, 
Share the bounties of Our Father 1 
Feel alike the summer sun, 
And the garden treasures gather ! 
This the tie that binds, in love. 
Great and small, sublime and lovely; 
Lifts our grateful hearts above. 
Toward the throne of God, most holy 1 



PHRENOLOGY. 



Dr. Phrenology [yoith a pompous tone']. — Ah I what 
a wondrous age is this ; an age of philosophy and intel- 
lectual light. Who can contemplate the rapid march of 
intellect, as it rolls onward in proud triumph, and not 
feel his heart exult in the approaching perfect ability 
of all human knowledge ; a triumph at which the stars 
of heaven stand aghast ; but oh I phrenology, most occult, 
3^et most noble of all sciences ; though now ridiculed 
and scoffed at, thou art destined to burst forth in daz- 
zling splendor, and sweep awa}^ the darkness of ages. 
March on thou science of sciences, thou grand climac- 
teric of all human discoveries. Oh, happy, thrice happy 
era, when phrenology 



SCllOOLDAY DIALOGL^ES. 205 

Linguist [interrupting']. — Oh ! circlaso Rexator, are 
"y Oil giving lectures to ghosts and hobgoblins ? Phren- 
ology comes from the Greek word Phreno, Phrenoso, 
lephronoko, (to bring one to his wits,) and hence also 
Phresis, Pephriticus, Morbus (a disease which seems to 
have turned your brains). Inverse ortum, and happy, 
thrice happy will 3^ou be if phrenology restores you to 
your wits, before you find the interior of a Hospitium 
Insanatum ; in plain English, '* a bedlam." 

J^HRENOLOGIST. — You impudent, brainless fellow, do 
you thu^ address a man of my honorable standing and 
profession. Perhaps you are not aware of addressing a 
professor of that most sublime and most profound of all 
sciences, phrenology. Have you not heard, sir, of Dr. 
Puhipologies, FRS., AAS., LLD ? 

L/NOUiST [LLD., Legum']. — Doctor, the very degree 
acquired by our honorable President, and also conferred 
upoii the celebrated Prince Black Haick. I am per- 
suaded of your right to the title Bumpologicus, Phren- 
ologixjus, Pompologicus, or any other logicus. 

Professor Ponderation, a noted philosopher, lives 
just iiere, who would be glad, I presume, to learn 
something of this Occulticimus, Etnohellicimus Scienti- 
tia from so learned and renowned a professor. I'll 
call him, sir. [^?7,oc/:8] Hallo ! [Servant enters.'] 

Servant. — What's wanting? 

Linguist. — Is your master at home ? 

Servant. — I guess he is, sir; he was here just now. 

Linguist. — Tell him Mr. Obstreperosity, a particular 
friend, wants to see h'mi. 

Servant. — Obstrecherosity, I should think so, 3'es, I 
will tell him. [Servant departs.] 

Phrenologist [alone luith linguist]. — I contend, sir, 
that phrenology is one of the most important discoveries 
ever invented b}^ man. Why, sir, by a careful inspec- 
tion of the cicibral developments, every trait in a man's 
character is scientifically explained, and infallibly dis- 
covered. [Enter philosopher and servant.] 

Linguist [to philosopher]. — Good-morning, Mr. Pon- 
deration, I have the honor to introduce 3^ou, sir, to Dr, 
Bumpologicus, Erudicimiiset Bumpologicimus, profes- 
sor, who can tell at once, b^^ a tangible operation upon the 



206 SCHOOL DAY DIALOGUES. 

excrescences of your pericranium, whether you are & phi- 
losopher, phrenologist, physiognomist, fiddler ov fool. 

Philosopher. — I had supposed, sir, that in order to 
determine a man's genius and character, it was neces- 
sary to descend beneath the exterior of the skull, but it 
beems I have been mistaken. 

Phrenologist. — I presume, sir, you are unacquainted 
with my theory — which is that each facult}^ of the mind 
is appropriated to a particular organ of the brain, which 
organ is known by the cerebral developments on the 
skull ; and that every man is scientifically under the 
necessity of being and thinking what these prominences 
indicate that he should be and think. 

Servant. — Xow, Mr. Bumpus cornfessor, I know thaVs 
true, for t'other day I bumped my skull most plaguely, 
and I tell you I couldn't help thinking fifty things in a 
half a second. 

Philosopher. — It will require some phrenological 
sagacity, sir, to make it appear that a man must neces- 
sarily act thus and thus, because he has a bump on this 
or that part of the skull. 

Phrenologist. — I tell you, sir, that careful and ex- 
tensive observations have clearl}^ proved that all are 
under the influence of these several organs, and it is 
morally impossible for them to act otherwise, than these 
cerebral developments indicate they should. 

Servant \to Bumpologicus']. — Sir, a swarm of ponder- 
ations will fly before you, like grasshoppers before a 
limping hemp-dresser. You dash at once the scales 
from our eye-winkers, and in ^treams lighf through 
skulls, though as thick as the staves of a wash-tub, and 
opens not only the origin of dispositions, but thoughts, 
which come forth in the character of bumps on the per- 
icranum ; even if they come as plenty as the flies about 
my master's fish-pond in summer. 

\_Linguist s'peaks to philosopher. ~\ 

Linguist. — Such discussions as these, if not instruc- 
tive, are amusing; but 1 must retire to amuse myself 
at my library, having added some new volumes to my 
former stock. Good-da}^, sir. [_Iietires.2 

ISome one calls to the phrenologist.^ 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 207 

You will confer a favor by stepping this way. I will, 
sir, as it gives me as much pleasure to teach in private 
as well as in public. [iTe retires.']'^ 



CORRECT HABITS. 

CHARACTERS. 

Salem Town, a distinguished teacher. 

John W. Newman, 

Henry D. Wise, }» Salem Town's pupils. 

William Brewer, 



Scene 1. — Salem Town^s Address. 

My much-esteemed Pupils : — As our school has now 
drawn to a close, and I am about to leave you, perhaps 
to see you no more on earth, I feel it ni}^ duty to call 
3^our attention to several subjects, which are intimately 
connected with your future prosperity, usefulness, and 
happiness. Almost every day since m}^ connection with 
this school I have given you more or less of advice and 
counsel, ''here a little and there a little." I am now 
before you for the last time, and shall proceed to give 
you my last, my parting counsel and advice, as to the 
course which, in my opinion, it will be both your duty 
and interest to pursue. I trust you will hear me pa- 
tiently, and with the utmost attention. 

You will be called upon in a fevv years, should 3^ou 
live, to battle with the stern realities of life. And as 
it is indispensably necessary for the soldier, before going 
to battle, to be properly armed and equipped, and have 
the benefit of thorough drilling and discipline in the art 
of war, so it is quite as necessary for you to undergo a 
thorough training in mind, morals, and manners, before 

* This dialogue is intended to ridicule only the quack phren- 
ological lecturers, who travel over the country and misrepresent 
and bring into disrepute the science of Plirenology. We wish 
that triflers covild all be rid out of society, and this important 
subject represented by its more able and conscientious advo- 
catea 



208 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

you can enter the great arena of active life with any 
well grounded hope of becoming a really useful member 
of society, and occupying high positions of honor and 
trust. Life is one great struggle, and he is wise that 
prepares himself to meet its trials, its duties, and its 
emergencies. 

No intelligent person will pretend to deny, that the 
better a man is educated, the better citizen he will be — 
the more good will he do — the happier he will be — the 
more capable of making others happ}^ — and the better 
will he subserve the great and noble purposes for which 
his Creator designed him. 

Early impressions are the most lasting, and have a 
wonderful influence in forming character. Hence the 
reason why parents and teachers should take great pains 
to make good and correct impressions upon the minds 
of children. It is said, and Avith good reason, too, that 
''youth receives impressions, and manhood ratifies 
them." How important, then, that correct outlines for 
future life be presented to the youthful mind, that a 
broad foundation may be laid for the great temple of 
Truth. 

My first advice to 3^ou is, study to do right, irrespec- 
tive of consequences. Do right, and let the conse- 
quences take care of themselves. In your conduct 
toward 3'our schoolmates, and others with whom you 
associate, cultivate high and noble principles of gene- 
rosity and kindness, and prove 3'our friendship by a 
willingness to sacrifice your own happiness to secure 
that of others. Guard against ill temper. Labor to 
subdue every bad passion. Choose to suffer wrong 
rather than to do wrong; and, what I regard as very 
important, never indulge in speaking ill of any one. If 
you cannot speak well, hold your peace. Cultivate po- 
liteness everywhere, at home and abroad — first, at home, 
and then it will be easy and natural for 3'ou to practice 
it abroad. Let these principles grow with your growth, 
and strengthen with j-our strength ; and when 3'ou shall 
have completed 3'our labors at school, 3'our correct 
moral principles will turn 3'our learning into the right 
channel, and you will enter out upon life with fair pros- 
pects of gaiii'Mg the esteem and confidence of the wise 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 209 

and the good. You will be promoted to the highest 
positions of honor and trust, and 3^ou will fill out the 
measure of your days in the full enjoyment of the mul- 
tiplied blessings of life, an ornament to society and an 
honor to your country. 

In conclusion, I would say a few words in refereuce 
to the best means to be employed to develop and 
strengthen the mind, and prepare you to search success- 
fully for the exhaustless treasures of knowledge. 

'i'he first indisputable requisite is, punctuality in at- 
tending school. And whenever the hour arrives for 
study, summon to your aid every faculty of your mind, 
and never allow it to be diverted from your lesson till 
it is completely mastered. This going to your task half 
dreaming and half awake, irresolute and uninterested, 
is just the way to weaken your mind, and to hedge up 
your way with difficulties, which accumulate and appear 
more and more insuperable at every step in your ascent 
up the hill of science. Bend to your task, my boys. 
Let every fibre of j^our minds be tasked to their utmost 
tension, and soon difficulties, one after another, will give 
way, and vanish like dew before the morning sun. Thus 
will your minds gain strength, and expand, and enlarge, 
and you will be able to take wider and more comprehen- 
sive views of nature and of science. 

Thus go on, from day to day, deporting yourselves 
in good morals, and habits, and manners, as well as in 
every thing that pertains to the good student, in such a 
dignified and sensible manner as will command the love 
and esteem of your schoolmates, your parents, and of 
3-our teachers. 

Now, my much-esteemed pupils, fill up faithfully the out- 
lines I have given you — carrj^out faithfully the doctrines 
and principles I have offered you asj^our guiding-star up 
the hill of science — and in a few j^ears you will have 
completed your studies, and your worth will be appre- 
ciated, and society, with one unanimous voice, will shout , 
" Come up higher !" and you will be promoted to high 
and honorable positions, and stand preeminently above 
those of your schoolmates who, though the}^ may have en- 
joyed equal advantages with you, yet fail to make use 
of tVe proper means and appliances for the accomplish- 
14 ' 



210 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ment of that which those of higher aspiratioms have at- 
tained. 

I submit these well-intended remarks to jour serious 
reflection, trusting that some of you at least will profit 
hy them, and that, after many days, I shall see, with 
satisfaction and pride, the fruits of my labor. 

\_Exit all hut John, Henry, and William.'] 

John. — Well, boys, what do you think of Mr. Town's 
good-by speech ? 

Henry. — I think the advice he gave us was excellent, 
and I'm more than half inclined to make the most of 
it. 

William. — Yes, I'd like to see you about it. It will 
be after this, I reckon. I don't swallow all his doctrines 
by a long ways. 

John. — Why, Bill, what did he say that you can take 
exceptions to ? 

William. — Why he said a heap of things. 

John. — Well, let's hear what they were. 

William. — Oh, I don't remember all he said, but I 
know I aint going to trouble myself to do half nor 
quarter of what he recommended. Think I'm going to 
split my head open studying ? no sir-e-e ! 

Henry. — Did he say you must do that ? 

William. — No ; not in those words exactl3% but that's 
what he meant, I suppose. 

John. — He urged the importance of forming correct 
habits of study, and said it would be greatl}^ to our in- 
terest to study hard; and I believe it and, as Henry said, 
I'm resolved to carry out in every particular, as far as I 
am able, the plan he offered and recommended for our 
adoption. 

William. — Two silly boys ! just as though you can 
remember half he said over night. He can't cage me, 
boys, depend upon it; I'm not going to submit to all 
this school drudgery for nothing. The great thing in 
this world is to get a living. Mr. Town kept telling us 
almost every day that the great object in coming to 
school was to learn to think. Nonsense ! I could think 
well enough afore I over went to school at all. Then 
ag'in he would tell us that the grand object was, to pre- 



SCnOOLDAY DTALOG-UES. 211 

pare ns for the great and responsible duties of after life, 
to use Ms own words. Pshaw, wlio believes such as 
that; I think the great object is to get a good living, 
and just as though splittin' one's head open tryin' to 
work hard sums, or conjugate a parcel of nonsensical 
verbs, would help anj^bod}- about hoeiu' corn and such, 
or make oak rails split open an}' easier ! It's all 
nonsense. It's well enough to know how to read and 
write some, and the like of that. Just look at old John 
Cross, why he's as rich as a Jew, and he doesn't know a 
letter. 

JoHX. — Well, old John Cross, as you call him, is one 
out of a thousand. He has managed, it is true, by 
his shrewdness, and avarice, and dishonesty combined, 
to accumulate what some would call a fortune. But 
what signifies wealth to such a man as Mr. Cross ! why 
he's one of the most unhappy beings on earth, and 
everybody knows that society is no better off for all his 
wealth, and he is esteemed as little perhaps as any man 
in this country. His money does him no good nor any- 
body else. 

William. — Well. I know I'd enjoy myself mighty 
well, if I had half his money. 

Henry. — You seem to forget, or else you never knew 
in what true happiness consists, William ; for my part, 
I think there is but little happiness in money, especiallj' 
when its use is controlled by a spirit of avarice and 
selfishness. 

William. — You precious little learned saint yow ! do 
tell me, if you please, what happiness consists in, if it's 
not in getting money. I heard our teacher say here one 
daj' in school, that ever}' body was eager in pursuit of 
hajopiness, now any body can see with only one eye 
open that ever}- body's hard at work to get money, and 
when they get it aint they happy ? now thenl 

Henry. — This kind of happiness is only temporary ; 
it vanishes as soon as the money -has gone. There is a 
happiness of a higher order ; a happiness that is ever 
springing up afresh in the heart and which sweetens 
many of the ills of life. 

William, — Pra}^ be so kind as to tell what it is? 

Henry. — Well, sir, I can in a very few words. It is 



212 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

the happiness which arises from doing good and making 
others happy. 

' William. — Yes, yes, I understand. Well I'm too in- 
dependent to want anybody's helj^ to make me happy. 
My doctrine is *• let every man take care of himself." 
If I can manage by hook or crook or in some way to 
get plenty of money, I'll risk but what I'll be happy 
enough to do me, and get through the world as respect- 
ably as either of you who are so crazy about all those 
hifalutin notions and whims of Mr. Town. 

John. — Come, boys, we've shown our colors. We are 
about to separate and go to our respective homes, in 
different States, and I move we suspend further discus- 
sion, till old father Time, in future years, assumes the 
province of Umpire, and then we'll be apt to get a wise 
and correct decision. 

Henry. — 1 second the motion. \_Exit allJ] 

Scene 2. — Salem Town with spectacles on reading a 
newspaper. A rap is heard at the door. Enter John 
W. Newman, governor of JNew York. 

Governor Newman. — Good-evening, sir. 

Salem Town. — Good, evening sir, walk in. 

Governor Newman. — I think I recognize my old 
friend and teacher Salem Town. [^Shaking hands.'] 

Salem Town. — My name is Town, sir, but really 
you have the advantage of me — that voice sounds famil- 
iar, it seems as though I ought to know 3'ou. \_Gets the 
candle and holds it up to his face.] I do declare I can 
come within one of guessing. It is either John New- 
man or Henry Wise, and if you'll repeat the first 
line of Brutus's address at the funeral of Caesar, I can 
tell which it is. 

Governor Newman, — Friends, Romans, Country- 
men — 

Salem Town \_overjoyed'\. — It's John Newman ! it's 
John Newman, I know it is I Am I not correct? 

Governor Newman. — Quite correct — John Newman, 
your old student at Aurora, New York — I'm glad to see 
you. 

Salem Town. — And I'm rejoiced to see you, too. I've 
been long wishing for this. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 213 

Governor Newman. — Having business in Missouri 
I resolved not to leave the State till I had paid you a 
visit, and tendered you my sincerest gratitude for your 
instructions in early life, and particularly for the truly 
excellent advice and counsel you gave us on the last 
day of school. I owe mj^ peculiar success in m}^ studies, 
and in my political career, and ray position in society 
and in business to the address to which I have just alluded. 

Salem Town. — It rejoices my heart, sir, to hear yon 
profited so much by it. But tell me where is Henry 
Wise. Do you know any thing of him ? 

Governor Newman. — Oh yes; he's coming to see 
you. 

Salem Town. — When, pray? [A rap at the door.'} 

Governor Newman. — I guess he's coming now. 
lEnter Judge Wise']. 

Governor Neavman [^takes Wise by the ami]. — This 
is Judge Wise. 

SalExM Town \_shaking hands'] — Judge Wise, your 
most obedient. But I thought you said you expected 
Henry Wise, your old class-mate, here to see me to night 

Governor Newman. — This is he — the very same. 
He, too, is on precisely the same errand that brought 
me here. 

Salem Town. — Why, Henry, how do a'ou do ? 

Judge Wise. — I am well, and exceeding glad to see 
you. Why, Governor Newman, isn't this a rich treat ! 

Salem Town. — Who's this you are calling Governor 
Newman ; explain yourself. You don't mean to say that 
iQ.y old student John W. Newman here has turned gov- 
ernor ? 

Judge Wise. — It is truly so, or rather the people of 
New York made him governor. 

Salem Town. — John Newman a governor, and Henry 
Wise judge. Pretty respectably sounding prefixes to 
your names, you've got, boys; but Governor Newman 
3'ou didn't tell me what kind of a judge Henry is, but I 
suppose [laughing] it's one of the commonest kind, 
probate judge, or something that way. 

Governor Newman. — Higher than that, Mr. Town. 
He has the h'-'nor of being Judge of the Supreme Court 
of the United States. 



214 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Salem Town. — Is it possible! But I am not bo 
much astonished after all, for I often remarked when 
you were my students, that John Newman and Henry 
Wise would some day, in my opinion, be men of distinc- 
tion. I gave as a reason, that they were very studious, 
and seemed to take great pains to cultivate good morals 
and manners, and to comply with the rules of school. 
But what's become of William — the boys used to 
call him Bill — somebody, I can't think who ? 

Governor Newman. — You mean William Brewer, I 
presume. 

Salem Town. — Yes, that's the name. Have you ever 
heard what's become of him ? I don't carry a very plea.s- 
ing record of him in my mind. I always thought he 
would never be of much account in the world. 

Judge Wise. — I understood several years ago that 
he had joined a traveling circus, and w^as serving in 
the capacity of teamster. I learned, also, that he had 
become very dissipated, and was, on the whole, rather a 
worthless character. [^Unter a servant^ 

Servant. — Here's a man at the gate, wants to know 
if he can get to stay all night. He says he's got no 
money, but he is a tinker and will mend up the old tin 
pans in the morning. 

Salem Town. — Tell him to come in. 

[Enter tiaher or Bill Brewer.'] 

Good-evening, gentlemen ; I called to see if I could 
get supper and lodgings to-night, and I'm pretty tired 
and hungry, too, having traveled since breakfast with- 
out dinner, 'cause why plain enough — I had no money, 
and nobody appeared to want any work done in my 
line. If you please allow me to stay with you to-night 
and in the raoi-ning hunt up all your old tin ware and 
as sure as my name is Bill Brewer [^all look at each 
other'] I'll mend them all up in the nicest manner for 
you. 

Salem Town. — Be seated, sir, you look tired. You 
can stay with us, sir. I never refused supper and lodg- 
ing to a traveler whether he has money or not. Did I 
understi^nd you to say your name was Bill Brewer? 

Wm. Brewer. — Yes sir; William Brewer is m}- name; 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGIJES. 215 

but the boys used to call me Bill, and eveyybody. I be- 
lieve, calls me Bill noic. 

Salzm Towy. — Pardon my curiosity ; but did you 
ever go to school in Aurora. Xew York ? 

Wm. Beewzb. — Yes. sir. when I was a boy : and I 
often think of the discussion John Xewman, Henry 
Wise and me had after our teacher. Mr. Town, had 
given his farewell address to the school. Yon see. they 
indorsed every word 'he said, and promised themselves 
they'd do just exactly as he advised us all to do. But I 
took strong grounds against his speech, and we had 
quite a warm discussion over it. 

Salem Towy. — Well who got the best of it ? 

AVm. Bbzwer. — Well, we adjourned without any decis- 
sion, and agreed to call in old Father Time as Umpire, 
and renew the discussion the next time we met, which 
we didn't expect would happen for many years, and 
goodness only knows whether we'll ever meet or not. 

Salem Town. — Do you think you would know your 
old teacher. Mr. Town, if you should see him ? 

TTm. Brewer. — Well, I dare say I might : but he's get- 
ting pretty old. and may be dead for what I know. 

Salem Towx. — ^Xot dead yet, sir. My name is Salem 
Town, the very same you went to school to in Aurora, 
Xew York. I don't wonder you didn't recognize me, 
for sickness and old age have greatly altered my ap- 
pearance. [Shabing hand^.'] How do you do, William ? 

W3L Brewer. — ^Xot to say very well, sir ; and the 
worst is I'm ashamed to meet you under snch circum- 
stances. 

^ALEM Town. — Oh, make yourself easy. William! 
There's many a one worse off than you in the world, I 
dare say. 

Wm. Brewer, — That all may be true : but when I 
reflect how stupid I was, not to heed the good advice 
you gave us. I can hardly forgive myself. The conse- 
quence of this neglect is that I'm now a poor wanderer 
through the world, without any home, without friends, 
and without a respectable trade even, by which to make 
a living. 

Salem Town. — I presume you would be glad to meet 
with Your old friends, John and Henrv, and renew 



216 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

your acquaintance, and finish up that discussion— 
wouldn't you ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Sorter glad and sorter not, as the old 
clown used to say. Why they've got up so high in the 
world before this time they wouldn't know me, wouldn't 
even say "how do?" to such a bundle of rags as I am^ 
and a tinker at that. 

Salem Town. — Oh ! I have no doubt they would both 
be glad to see you. Do you think you would know 
them if you should meet them in your travels ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Know them ! yes, in a minute. T 
shall never forget how they looked. 

Salem Town. — Pardon my impoliteness. I suppose 
you are not acquainted with these gentlemen ? 

Wm. Brewer. — Never saw them before, that I recol- 
lect of, sir. 

Salem Town. — Well, William Brewer, allow me the 
pleasure of introducing you to Judge Wise and Governor 
Newman, your classmates in Aurora. I will withdraw 
while you conclude your long postponed discussion ; 
trusting that old Father Time, who is now present, and 
to whom 3^ou agreed to submit your arguments for de- 
cision at your next meeting, will do you full justice. 

Wm. Brewer. — Am I dreaming ! The decision is 
made and I am satisfied. By faithfully filling up the 
outlines, submitted to us by our worthy teacher, to be 
our guide in the formation of our habits and character, 
Henry Wise is now Judge Wise, and John Newman is 
now Governor Newman, and I, Bill Brewer, by rejecting 
his counsel, am — what ? An outcast and a tinker. 
[ Curtain falls,'] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 217 



THE SECRET. 



Hettie ^running to overtake Mary on her icay to 
school']. — Oh, Mary, wait a minute, won't you ? Don't 
be in a hurry. 

Mary. — Wh}-, Hettie, what is the matter? You look 
as tired as though 3'ou had been ruuning this half hour. 

Hettie. — Well, I should think I was tired, running 
clear from the corner, and calling you loud enough to 
split my throat open. 

Mary. — Well, Hettie, you know I didn't hear you ; 
if I had I'd waited ; but we musn't stop here, for it's 
almost time for the bell to ring, and I wouldn't be lat6 
for any thing. 

Hettie. — Oh, well, we sha'n't be late, for it was only 
eight o'clock, when I started, and I've run all the way. 
Let's sit down here a few minutes, it's so cool and 
shady, and I'm so tired. 

Mary. — Well, I'll wait a few minutes, and only just 
a few. 

Hettie. — Why, Mary, I believe you like to go to 
school, but I don't. It's school, school, school, school, 
from morning till night. I hate these old books, and this 
old school. I wish there was no such thing as school. 

Mary. — Why, Hettie, I don't; I like to go to 
school, and get mj' lessons, and write compositions, 
because mother says I ought to. 

Hettie. — Well, I don't, if mother does say I ought 
to. But, oh, Mary [clapping her hands'], I heard some- 
thing. I know something, Mary. 

Mary. — Well, Hettie, you'll tell me, wont you ? You 
know I always tell you every thing. 

Hettie. — I'd like to, Mary, but then I can't. It's a 
secret. Mother doesn't know that I know it, nor sister 
Emily. 

Mary. — Oh, now, Hettie, you're too bad. If I ever 
know a secret, I'd tell Dora Yau, would I ! I shan't 
tell you — but come, tell me, please do. 

Hettie —Oh, I musn't, Mary, indeed I musn't. 



218 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mother said it was a secret, and I don't know what 
she'd do to me if she knew that I know it. I'll tell you 
some, though. 

Mary. — Oh, now come, tell me. If you will, I'll give 
you all these flowers [holding a bouquet]. 

Hettie. — I say I'll tell you some, but I can't tell the 
secret. 

Mary. — Well, I'll give these flowers to Dora. But 
come now, Hettie, if you will tell me all I'll give you 
my new wax doll that father brought me from New 
York. Its nose isn't cracked, nor nothing. 

Hettie. — I can't tell you all, indeed I can't, but I'll 
tell you some. Mr. White comes to our house, oh, so 
often ! And every time he comes he pats me on the 
(iheek, and says, "Hettie, isn't it most your bedtime?" 
just as if I was a little girl and didn't know my own 
Jbedtime. But that isn't all. If I ask Emily any 
thing she says, "never mind now, dear ; run off to your 
play." And mother comes and calls me, and says, 
"didn't you know your sister was engaged ?" I suppose 
she didn't think I knew what that meant, but I did 
though, and I think she might answer my question if 
she is engaged. But I don't care, for I know some- 
thing, and she doesn't know that I know it, either. 
The other night after Mr. White went away, mother and 
Emily were talking. It was so warm they opened the 
bed-room door, and they thought I was asleep, but I 
wasn't. Emily had a new white dress; it cost fifty 
dollars at the City Mill Store, and the best dressmaker 
in town is making it. And mother is baking such lots 
of cake ! I just wish you could see it. There is one, I 
do believe it's that high [measuring its height fi^om the 
floor], all made out of little ones on top of each other, 
and all covered over with candies and raisins. There is 
another — I do believe it's that big [making a half 
circle with her arms], and just as white as snow. 

Mary [jumping up and clapping her hands]. — Oh ! 
I know, I know, I know ; Emily is going to be married. 
— Emily is going to be married. 

Hettie [jumping up and throwing her arms around 
Mary]. — Well, I didn't tell you, did I? You guessed 
it — you guessed it — you guessed it, didn't you ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 219 

Mary. — Oh, there goes the bell! I wish we hadn't 
waited. 

Hettie, — Oh, well, we shan't be late — we'll run. 



THE TWO FRIENDS. 



CHAEACTERS. 



Tom, a school boy. Harry, his friend. 

James Truemax, son of his employer, late from college. 



Scene 1. — A village street. Tom and Harry meet, one- 
well dressed, the other shabbily. 

Harry. — Good-moruing, Tom. Going to school to- 
day? 

Tom. — Xo, Hany ; pa is sick and I can not go any 
more. 

Harry. — What ! never ? 

Tom. — My schooldays are orer, I fear. I did so hope 
I could continue this session, but ma says it's im- 
possible — I must work to support the family. 

Harry. — Too bad, Tom. We will miss you so ; our 
teacher, too, will miss you sadly. Where will you 
work ? 

Tom. — On Mr. Trueman's farm. 

Harry. — That old curmudgeon. It's a mile to his 
farm, and, work as j'ou ma}', you can't please him, 
better come to school and get the prize. 

Tom. — I can not [^/y/?;?]. But, Harry, I will be at 
home ever}' evening; lean stud}', you kuow. 

Harry. — Oh, yes, youll be a ripe scholar, no doubt,, 
with your little brothers cryiug around. 

Tom Rafter a jjause^. — If somebody would cnly teach 
me. 

Harry. — I believe our teacher is too* busy to teach 
around after school hours. 

Tom. — I did not mean him — if some of the boys would 
study w^th me— — 



220 SCHOOLPAY DIALOGUES. 

Harry. — I would like to help you, Tom, but I have 
so many engagemeuts. May be Bill Smith would study 
with you. Ill mention it to him. [^ Turns aicay.^ 

Tom. — Oh, no ; don't tell anybody. 

Harry [comes bock^. — Well, I won't. I'll be your 
friend, Tom, through thick and thin. If you want a 
favor come to me. Good-by, Tom. Good luck to you. 
[^Goes off muttering that's the way father talks to poor 
■people. Curtain falls.'] 

tCENE 2. — Tom alone in Mr. Trueman'slihrary reading. 

Enter Janits. 

James — Tom, you appear to be devoted to books. I 
hope 3'ou are not reading any thing trashy. [LooLs over 
his .shoulder, steps back surprised.] Is it possible that 
3'ou read Latin ? 

Tom. — A little, sir. I have not much time for stud}'. 

James [seats himself]. — Any other boy would say, 
no time for study. But how do you get on by your- 
self. 

Tom. — Very slowly, but ma says, as J {im learning so 
many things I must not expect to get on fast. 

James. — You are not perplexing yourself with too 
many studies I hope ? 

Tom. — Oh, no, Algebra is my principal study ; but she 
says I am learning patience, diligence, and self-reliance 
beside learning to reason widely and think deeply ; these 
are learned without being studies, and mj- teacher said 
the last day I was at school, that the nation needed 
thinkers. 

James. — Very true ; I wish there were more such 
mothers in the land. Tom, could you not stay with us 
every night? 

Tom — Don't know, sir; believe pa would let me, now 
he is well. 

James. — Get his consent and I will teach you from 
six till nine every evening. 

Tom. — Thank you, Mr. Trueman ; I can never thank 
you enough. But you must only give me a few lessons, 
then I can get on better ; it will be such dull, tiresome 
work, tiiat I can not allow my best friend to be more 
imposed upon. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 221 

James. — You will confer a favor b}^ becoming my 
pupil. I still prosecute my studies, but only occasionally 
and I want to learn of you those other things that are 
not studies. Please see your father to-morrow. 

Tom. — I will ; thank you, sir. IPicks up his hat.'] 
Good-night, sir. [Uxit.] 

James. — Good-night, Tom. [Looks after him.'] I 
will follow his bright example and do my whole duty 
better in future. 

[Curtain falls.] 



KILLED WITH KINDNESS. 

Scene 1. — Two girls walking arm-in-arm. 

Abby. — When mamma first proposed the idea, it 
struck me as rather absurd. 

Kate. — It still seems so to me, I must confess, Abby. 
What is the u#e to spend your pocket-mone}^ for people 
who can't appreciate your kindness ? Whatever we do 
for Miss Fling, will be sure to give offence. If it's a 
goose, she'll wish it was a turkey ; if it's a turkey, she'll 
say, " Oh, you foolish Galathians, why didnt you bring 
a goose ?" 

Abby [laughing]. — Well, it's a matter of course that 
we shall not please her. But will it not be all the more 
generous in us to give, without expecting thanks ? She 
is a poor, crazed old body, any way ; and you know we 
were sent to her school when we were mere babies. She 
taught us the alphabet — remember that. 

Kate — I shall not forget it. It was severe at the 
time, and now it's awful to remember: She taught us to 
read in two letters ; that was the extent of her accom- 
plishments. 

Abby. — Our parents were afraid our pronunciation 
would be ruined if we staid longer. Now she hasn't 
taught for years. She is poor, and I pity her. 

Kate.— So do I. I pit}- her for being Merc}^ Ann 
Eling, a compound of crab-apples, cambric-needles and 
vinegar. 



222 SCIIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Abby. — And for living alone. It must have been 
hard for her to lose the property her father left. 
Mamma says it affected her mind. 

Kate. — Dear me ! Did she ever have a mind ? It 
has dwindled away to a remnant, weak and small. 
Well, Abb}^ perhaps you are right. I'm willing to con- 
tribute the larger half of my pocket-money toward buy- 
ing the poor creature some holiday presents, if the 
other girls will do the same. 

Abby. — You dear old Kitty ; you'll give more than 
the rest of us, I dare say, in spite of your joking. 

Kate. — Don't flatter me, or I wont give a penny. 
Let's meet to-night and make our plans ; but we must 
look out, every one of us, for a good scolding. 

l_Curtain fa,lls.'\ 

Scene. 2. — Miss Fling^s parlor, poorly furnished but 
neat. Miss Fling, respectably but coarsely dressed, 
with spectacles, frizette and cap, sits alone, knitting ; 
her face bound up with a red silk handkerchief. 

Miss Fling. — Ugh, how the wind blows ! If it comes 
from the north, it slams the blinds ; if it comes from tlie 
east, it settles in my teeth. I'm worse off" than Job, for 
I've nobody to speak to. Should think some of the 
neighbors might come in, when they know I'm alone. 
But they wont. Nobody remembers me now-a-days, 
not even my old scholars. If I hadn't been cheated 
out of my property, I should have been treated with 
attention. It would have been, "My dear Miss Fling," 
here, and " My dear Miss Fling,' there. I should have 
gone to the first houses to eat Christmas dinners, and 
none of these cold messes lying around in my cupboard. 
Oh, no ! .But here I am, lone and 'lorn, suff'ering with 
ao^iie, and nobody comes near me, to see if I'm alive or 
dead. [^ knock. Miss Fling settles her cap and shakes 
out her dress.'] I wish people would stay awajM I 
should have caught a nice little doze in about a minute; 
but I never can have the house to m^yself '[Goes to the 
door.] Good evening, Abby Fletcher. Walk in, child. 

Abby. — Good evening. Miss Fling. [Sets a little box 
on the tablff' 1 Wish you a happy New Year. 



I 



SCH00LDA7 DIALOGUES. 223 

Miss Fling. — You needn't. I shall not have one, if 
you do wish it. \_Looks earnestly at the box.^ 

Abby. — And a hundred more, Miss Fling. 

Miss Fling. — Keep to the truth, child. You don't 
wish me a quarter of a hundred New Years ; or, if you 
do, you must have lost 3^cur senses. You didn't learn 
such morality at my school ! 

Abby [^smiling^. — I merely offer the compliments 
of the season to my old teacher. I hoj^e she is not 
offended ? 

Miss Fling [angrili/^. — Offended ? One would think, 
to hear you, that I had the temper of a North American 
tigress ! Such insinuations, Miss Abby, would never 
be thought of, if I had not been cheated out of my 
property. 

Abby [^opens the box']. — My dear Miss Fling, I've 
been w^ishing to make you a little holiday present, and 
hope 3^ou'll please accept this cap. 

Miss Fling [taking it']. — Thank you. Miss Abby. 
Remarkable, I'm sure, that you should happen to re- 
member a poor lady like me, if I was 3- our first teacher. 
[Examines the ribbon.] Purple, upon my word ! If 
there is a color I can't abide, it's purple. But of course 
you didn't know that, and I'm just as much obliged 
to you [Puts it on over her other cap ; looks in the 
mirror.] Too large over the ears, too small in the 
crown ; doesn't come far enough forward to meet my 
hair. Now, child, if you'd only taken the measure of 
my head ! 

Abby [smiling]. — Perhaps, dear madam, if 3-0 u should 
remove that silk bandage 

[Knock. Miss Fling opens the door. Enter tivf) girls.] 

Both Girls. — A happ3^ New Year, Miss Fling, and 
many pleasant returns ! 

Miss Fling. — Two more of my old scholars ! How 
did it happen ? [Offers chairs.] Please take seats, young 
ladies. If 3'ou had called on me thirt3^ years ago, Iconld 
have offered you hair-cloth and mahogan3^ [Sighs.] But 
since I've lost m3^ propert3^ 

Louise [opening a bandbox]. — Miss Fling, I thought 
I would like to give 3^ou something as a token of my 



224 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

good-will. \^Offers a velvet ho7inet.'} I hope you will 
like this. It was made by niy own milliner. 
^ Miss Fling Isurprised^. — Why ! Thank you, Miss 
Louise. Keally, this is quite unexpected. [^Turns it 
over on her hand.^ Some like black bonnets ; but, for 
my part, I think they are only suitable for ladies in the 
down-hill of life. \_G-irls look at one another, and smile. 
Miss Fling puts the bonnet over her cap, and it perches 
upon the back of her head.'\ Well, Miss Louise, [look- 
ing in the mirror,'] yova' " own milliner" may be a 
French lady, and eat frogs every day of her life, but 
she doesn't know how to make a bonnet ! 

Louise. — Miss Fling, if you'll only remove that silk 
bandage and one of your caps 

Miss Fling [shatply']. — I've got the tickleroo in my 
cheeks, and it's likely to sta}^ there ! Do 3'ou think I'll 
wear a little nut-shell that wont leave room for so much 
as this ? 

Louise. — But it's so thick ! 

Miss Fling \jperching the bonnet on the summit of her 
head]. — Because I've caught cold in m}^ ear; the tinny- 
pum is affected. Take home this furbelow, and see if 
your doll can get it on. [But at the same time she puts 
the bonnet iri the bandbox, and carefully sets 'it away in 
a closet.] 

Jane [offering a shawl]. — Please accept, Miss Fling, 
with the compliments of the season. 

Miss Fling. — Thank you, Jane. Why, really, this is 
most astonishing! A shawl is better than nothing. I 
had a velvet cloak once, with eleo-ant frinoe. But I 
never expect to have a cloak of any kind again; for 
when people lose their property 

Jane. — Excuse me, Miss Fling ; but I once heard 
you sa}^ 3'ou wouldn't take the gift of a cloak, so I ven- 
tured to offer a shawl. 

Miss Fling. — You might have heard me say I never 
would take the gift of a shawl. Those were m3' words, 
Jane. [Putting it on.] It is the oldest looking gar- 
ment in the world, onl}'' suitable for a lady in the down- 
hill of life. 

Jane [grieved]. — I'm so sorry, Miss Fling. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 225 

Louise [asitZe]. — She is delighted at heart. Never 
mind what she says, Jenny. 

[^Knocks. Miss Fling opens the door, still accoutred 
in her new garments ; shaiul put on awry ; bonnet 
perched on the organ of benevolence. Enter Kate.'] 

Kate. — Good-evening, Miss Fling. [^ShaTcei hands 
heartily.] Ah, ha ! You are dressed cap-a-pie! The 
happiest of New Years to you, for ever! \_Offers to 
kiss her.] 

Miss Fling \_drawing back]. — Wh}^, Kate ! 

Kate. — Oh ! but you taught me to read in two 
letters, Miss Fling. Can't you let me kiss you for 
New Year ? 

Miss Fling. — I was brought up never to Mss. My 
father was a gentleman of the old school. He consid- 
ered kissing a foolish use of the lips. 

Kate. — A fig for foolishness ! \_Seizes Miss Fling 
playfully by the shoulders ; kisses her several times.] 
There, there ! Now I've kissed you for Christmas an(^ 
New Year, and Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving ; 
and I'd like to see you help it. Miss Fling ! 

Miss Fling. — Oh, you foolish Galathian ! Your 
manners are very uncultivated, and always were. 
.You'll ruin my beautiful new cap and shawl. 

Jane [_aside]. — She calls the cap and shawl beautiful I 

Louise \aside]. — She has the same opinion of the 
bonnet. She likes it all the better for being in the 
height of fashion. 

Kate. — Now, Miss Fling, what a figure you are! 
What makes you roll up your face in a blanket ? 

Miss Fling. — A handkerchief, child ! On account 
of tickler 00 ; and also a pain in the ear. The tinnypum 
is afi'ected. 

Kate. — No wonder. Miss Fling. You keep your 
room too cold. Please, Abby, put some more coal on, 
for we came to spend the evening sociall}^ ; and this is 
certainh' a chillj^ reception. 

Miss Fling. — You were alwa^ys called a forward 

child, when 3^ou went to my school. You used to creep 

under the table, and I couldn't make you come out. 

Tor haven't improved one speck, Kate Gilman I The 

15 



226 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

idea of visitors touching my fire ! How do you kno^ 
I've any coal to spare ? 

Kate. — Oh ! Miss Fling, you like to be hospitable, 
you know you do. And now, please step into the next 
room ; for I've brought you a new dress, and long to 
see you try it on. Louise, will you light this little 
lamp for us? 

[^Louine takes the lamp and looks re und for matches.^ 

Miss Fling. — There is the match-safe, Louise, right 
under the clock. If it had been a bear, it would have 
bitten you. I shall be sure to catch my death o' cold, 
going out of this fire-room, Kate Gilman. But I sup- 
pose I must do as you say, you foolish child ! 

Kate. — To be sure, you must do as I say. And I 
am, as you playfully observe, a foolish child. 

[^JExeunt together.'] 

Abby. — Now is our time. 

IGoes to the door, followed by the other two girls. 
They all return with baskets.] 

Louise \_spreading a white cloth on the table, and 
putting upon it a large frosted cake, ornamented], — 
Behold a peace-offering for our amiable hostess 1 

Abby [^putting on pitch'^.r and glasses]. — -Here's some 
lemonade, which we will diink to the gentle lady's health. 

Jane [adding two handsome dishes of confectionery]. 
— And here are some goodies. May they sweeten her 
disposition ! 

Abby [suspending an arch with letters of green, "A 
Happy New Year," over the table]. — She told me I 
needn't wish her a Happy New Year ; she shouldn't have 
one, if I did ; but what do you call this ? 

Louise. — Poor, unfortunate soul! [Setting lamps o?i 
table and lighting them.] Let us give her a slight illu- 
mination for once. 

Abby. — And a little warmth. Don't you perceive a 
change in the atmosphere since I replenished the fire? 
[Rubbing her hands.] 

Louise. — Yes, and Miss Fling's sad, frozen heart is 
thawing Do you observe it? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 227 

'Tane, — Iso wonder she gets cross living here with 
her own gloomy thoughts for company. Oh, we forgot 
to set chairs. 

[_Places them around the table. Enter Miss Fling, 
attired in black silk, with false front of curls, 
Abby^s cap on her head, her face free from 
bandage. Altogether her appearance is strikingly 
improved. She looks like a lady. Followed by 
Kate, who laughingly holds a lamp, and exhibits 
Miss Fling as if she were a painting.'] 

, Kate. — Look, girls ; here am I, Cinderella's god- 
mother ! I found my poor Cinderella sitting in the 
ashes ; I touched my wand and here she is all ready for 
the prince's ball. Make a courtesy, Miss Fling ! 

Miss Fling [_with a really graceful though oldfash- 
ioned courtesy']. — Good-evening, young ladies ! You see 
Kate is one of the kind that will be obeyed. But what 
have we here ? {^Looking at the table and holding up 
both hands]. 

Louise [putting shawl over 3Iiss Fling^s shoulders]. — 
Oh, you have come to the prince's ball, you know ! 

[Offers chair. Miss Fling sits at the table, sur- 
rounded by the girls, who also seat thenfis elves.] 

Miss Fling [smiling]. — Why, children, this is — why 
really this is quite unexpected ! It carries me back 
thirty years. It reminds me of the beautiful old times 
before I lost my property. 

[Draws herself up and looks very happy and proud. 
Kate as mistiness of ceremonies is about to cut the 
cake, when a loud knocking is heard, also several 
shrill whistles.] 

Miss Fling [starting up in alarm]. — Oh! what has 
happened ! Run, girls, the house is afire ! Put me 
out! Open the door ! Put me out! Save ray bonnet I 
In the closet ! Save that velvet bonnet I 

[ The girls all laugh.] 

Kate. — Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Fling. It'a 
only the boys — our brothers. They have come to add 
theif mite ai X gi-e 3'ou some coal. 



228 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES 

Miss Fling [setting bach in her chair, putting 
handkerchief to her face as if undecided whether to cry 
or nof]. — It's first one thing, and then another. You 
girls and boys, take you both together, have given m}^ 
nerves a pretty start! 

Abby \_going to the door~\. — As I have made such 
free use of your coal, Miss Fling, I suppor^e ifs but 
fair that I should attend to the management of this. 
Now, where shall I tell the boys to have it put, if you 
please ? 

Miss Fling .[laughing^. — Oh, you foolish Galathian I 
In the cellar, where do you think ? \^Bursts into tears."] 
You dear, blessed children ! Such a holiday as this 
I've not known for many a year — not since I lost my 
property. Come here, every soul of you, and let me 
kiss 3^ou. 

Kate [laughing']. — Such foolishness. Miss Fling ! 

[ They all surround their hostess in a group. Boys 
still knocking and whistling.] 

Miss Fling. — You've killed me with kindness. 
[ They all kiss her at once. Curtain falls.] 



THE SISTERS. 



This little piece is founded on a passage in the Colo- 
nial history of New England, in which it is related that 
a young girl who had been captured by the Indians, re- 
maining among them till she reached the age of woman- 
hood, became the wife of a young chief Afterward, 
returning to visit the home of her infancy, she refused 
the earnest prayers of her parents and sisters to take 
up her abode with them, and with many tears, and ex- 
pressions of affection, she bade them farewell, and went 
back to the wigwam of her savage husband. The com- 
plete Indian costume of the mother and child may be 
made to contrast finely with a simple white dress of the 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 229 

colonial fashion, worn by a blue-e^^ed blonde, as the 
English sister. 

Sister. — 

Go not, sweet sister, from our home of peace, 
Into those dark and gloomy wilds away ! 
Here, day by day, our household joys increase : 
There, deeper darkness settles, day by day. 

Stay thou beside our hearth of warmth and light, 
And nurture this fair child in English lore, — 

And in our mother's faith, that made more bright 
Those happy girlish days, so bright before I 

Indian Captiye. — 

Nay, gentle sister ! Deem not sadness dwells, 

Nor moral gloom, amidst our wigwams wild I 
This fair child lifts to heaven, at evening-tide, 

Hands pure as thine, and prayers as undefiled. 

And thou, my absent lord 1 believe not, thou, 
Thy wife will linger from thy side away I 

The sweetest sunshine crowns thy noble brow, 
My soul of home is in thy evening lay. 

I know thy tender trust is strong as death. 
Unchangeable as heaven, where'er thou art, 

And the sweet burden of that generous faith 
Lies safe, a shrined gem, upon my heart. 

I go, sweet sister ! yet believe thou well. 
No later love, how fond and close so e'er. 

Shall ever, from this forest-nurtured breast 
Unwind one bond to grateful memory dear. 

I go : but here, at thy beloved feet, 

I leave a portion of my heart's warm love ; 

And trust, in shame of narrow creeds, to greet 
Thee, and our mother, in that home above. 

Where thought of race or caste shall ne'er divide 

The pastor's daughter from the sachem's bride I 



230 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

MANAGEMENT; OR, THE FOLLY OF 
FASHION. 

[The young girl performing in this dialogue will understand 
she is to be in party costume, without hoops beneath the 
calico dress, that the mere removal of hoops and dress may be 
quickly efifected.] 



Scene 1. — Mrs. Snooks in a loose calico dress busily 
sweeping. Enter Mr. Snooks. 

Mr. Snooks. — Dear! dear I what a dust! You're 
always in a htirry. ^Takes the broom from her and 
leans it up carelessly.'] 

Mrs. Snooks. — Well, you^re not I 

Mr. Snooks [^slowly, with hands in his pockets']. — No, 
I'm waiting for something to turn up. 

Mrs. Snooks. — Waiting for something to turn up, 
are you ? I wish you'd turn something up, and sup- 
pose you begin with my broom. You ought to know, 
any man ought to know, it ruins a broom to set it that 
way, the brush end should always be up, so; [^shows him] 
but to-morrow, Mr. Snooks, you'd come in and set that 
broom up the very same way, I'd be bound you would. 
[^She slips a bandana from his pocket and begins to 
dust the furniture, hurriedly.] 

Mr. Snooks. — Flurry, hurry, flurry I I hate this thing 
of flying around as though the world were a-fire ! [Sits 
down and affects to read a newspaper, but looks from 
time to time at Mrs. Snooks.] 

Mrs. Snooks [with arms a-kimbo]. — If I were you I'd 
\ot say fire — the world a-fire, indeed I If you were to 
p.'ovide the kindling the world wouldn't burn up soon — 
that last oven wood you got was a superfine article — ■ 
hardly wilted the pies, and left the bread all dough — and 
a pretty fuss you made about that. Your paper is very 
interesting, I presume! [Approaching him, and looking 
over his shoulders.] 

Mr. Snooks [gruffly]. — Of course, it is ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — I thought so ; ah ! I was quite sure 
of it I f Turning it up she shows him he had held it upside 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 231 

down — a letter falls.'] Ah! there, I had almost forgot- 
ten ; this is our invitation to Mrs. Stuckup's party — the 
greatest affair of the season ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Don't ! oh, don't say Mrs. Stuckup's 
party to me, I know what that means ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — What ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Dresses and ribbons, feathers and flow- 
ers, and 

Mrs. Snooks. — Fiddlesticks ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes, fiddlestick, and worse than that, 
oh, far worse ! she'll want me to dance, and I wont ! I 
wont 1 I wont ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh ! Mr. Snooks, how you do go on I 
Why you are one of Mrs. Stuckup's favorites ; how she 
does admire your taste ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes. 

Mrs. Snooks. — And she will be pleased with the bon- 
net you'll choose for me ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes, she will admire the nice new bon- 
net you'll get out of me, by your blarney. I'll just tell 
you I've no notion. \_She goes close up to Mm, looking 
very smiling.'] Oh, don't think it ! I feel a contempt 
for Mrs. Stuckup, and fashion, and you. [^He jumps up.] 

\_Mrs Snooks at the same time rises, and takes the 
cap from his head.] 

Mr. Snooks. — Oh, I forgot to take my cap off. I 
didn't mean any disrespect to you. What on earth *are 
you turning that cap around and around for ? and what 
does that delighted expression on j'our face mean ? 

Mrs. Snooks.— Oh, I have it now, Mr. Snooks! 

Mr. Snooks. — Have, what? 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, such a capital idea ; just let me 
have my own way, and I'll save you ten dollars, right 
straight I 

Mr. Snooks. — No, you shan't have your own way, 
either — not a bit of it ! No, no I 

Mrs. Snooks. — Yes ! yes ! yes I 

Mr. Snooks. — No ! no ! n 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, to save ten dollars ! [^Lays her 
hand on his arm.] 

Mr. Snooks. — Well, how ? 



232 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. Snooks. — Sit clown, now, and listen to me. 
You know you don't care about fashion ? 

Mr. Snooks. — No. 

Mrs. Snooks. — And I do! 

Mr. Snooks. — Yes 1 oh, yes 

Mrs. Snooks. — WeU, see here, now; I'll put this piece 
of velvet about here, and this feather I'll put here, and, 
now — oh, isn't it a love, a beauty ? Why, I declare, 'tis 
beyond my expectations! the effect is decidedly fine. 
Ah I Mrs. Stuckup will admire that 1 That, she will 
say, is some more of your husband's taste — his wonder- 
ful taste. 

Mr. Snooks. — Taste ! taste ! rather a bitter taste, I 
should think ! Woman ! woman ! what do you mean, 
woman ? 

Mrs. Snooks. — Don't stand there and call me woman, 
as if a woman was something you never saw before ! 

Mr. Snooks. — You've taken my best hat ! what am I 
to do ? 

Mrs. Snooks [^soothingly, and producing an old and 
very shocking hat']. — Why, bless your head and your 
heart, man! you don't care for fashion, and here, now, 
is my grandfather's hat, as good as new ; you can wear 
that, I'm sure — you're very welcome to it. [^She puts 
it on his head]. There, now ! 

Mr. Snooks [walks to a mirror and surveys himself] 
— aSIadam, it is not comfortable 1 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, you'll soon get used to it! 

Mr. Snooks. — No doubt ; well, I will. I will weai 
the concern provided you will in other respects dress 
according to my taste — my taste that is so lauded by 
Mrs. Stuckup. 

Mrs. Snooks. — Now 'tis time I were dressing. I must 
be going ; give me your suggestions, quickly I 

Mr. Snooks. — Well, see here, I know you will, as 
you gave up the ten dollar bonnet to please me, you 
can't have any objections ; you'll just leave off these 
circular absurdities — this crinoline. 

Mrs. Snooks [with hands upraised in astonishment].-^ 
Ah 1 [then laughing]. Yes, yes, I will; I will please you 
this once ; I'll be ready in a minute, yes, in half a min- 
ute. [She- runs off laughing.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 233 

Mr. Snooks '[gazes on the hat, turning it in every posi- 
lion, and soliloquizes — using his luatch^. — A minute, in- 
deed ! she'll keep me half an hour, she'll be sure to ; of 
course she wont ; I wish she would leave the hoops off. 
But, yes, she shall, I can show my authority if I want 
to; she shall do it ; how I'll laugh to see her, and wont 
I enjoy madam Stuckup's surprise, I'll tell her that's 
some of my taste. That minute is rather lengthy, and 
I know it would be useless to call " hurry," she's all 
hurry now, and will keep hurrying till I'm half crazy. 
Here, Mrs. Snooks I Mrs. Snooks ! come hurry, hurry, 
we'll be too late I 

[^Enter 3Irs. Snooks in elegant party dress, but with- 
out hoops."] 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh I we will make all the greater sen- 
sation on our entrance. 

Mr. Snooks [starting back aghast]. — Why I What 
upon earth, you look like a broom-stick I I'd be likely 
to go with you ! You're a beauty ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Thank you, 'tis many a long day 
since I received such a compliment 1 

Mr. Snooks. — But Mrs. Snooks ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — What's wrong ? 

Mr. Snooks. — Mrs. Snooks, I can provide clothing 
enough for you to make a genteel appearance. My 
goodness I how skimpy you do look ! 

Mrs. Snooks. — Why, Mr. Snooks, this is your taste • 
here, put on your hat, Mrs. Stuckup will be delighted ! 

Mr. Snooks. — Oh, you don't mean ! Oh, dear !" 

Mrs. Snooks. — Why, come on, I've learned to despise 
fashion, too 

Mr. Snooks. — Put one on, please, just one hoop. 

Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, it's too late now; come, come 
away, I will be the admired of all 

[She hurries him along with her. As they leave the 
stage he says, ruefully : 

" If she will, she will, you may depend on't, 

. If she wont, she wont, and there's an end on't." 



234 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



COLUMBUS AT THE COURT OF SPAIN. 

OHAEAOTERS. 

Queen Isabella. Juan Perez de Marchena. 

Dona Beatrix de Bobadilla. Luis de St. Angel. 
King Ferdinand. Fernando de Talavera. 

Christopher Columbus. Pedro, a page. 

In the second scene, an Indian or two. 



[We leave the costumes of King, Queen and Page, and 
the court dresses of the rest, to the tastes of teachers and 
pupils. Prints in any school geography or history will suggest 
the styles of the times.] 



Scene 1. — King and Queen seated upon the throne, the 
Lady Beatrix near the Queen, and the Page in view. 
The Page announces ''Juan Perezy 

Queen. — Grant him admittance. 

King. — Oh, Isabella! must we listen again to the wild 
schemes of this dreamer Columbus ? [Perez e7uering.'\ 

Queen [addressing the King']. — Our friend, Juan 
Perez. It is the part of wisdom, Ferdinand, to listen 
patiently and consider well of these weighty matters. 

King. — Well, Perez, go on ; we will hear the old story 
over again. 

Perez. — Will your gracious majesties listen to me 
once more. I would fain have you receive this remark- 
able man, Senor Christopher Columbus ; he is no idle 
dreamer, as you have supposed. 

King. — An enthusiast; a mad enthusiasti 

Page. — Don Fernando Talavera. 

Talavera [to Perez]. — What ! you here, Perez. ^To 
the King.] Oh, my King 1 what is Spain coming to, 
when she talks of fitting out an expedition in search of 
a jack-o'-lantern ? 

Queen. — Nay, Fer Jinand 1 we will hear Columbus : 
if it is folly, call it mine ; if it is glory, you shall share it. 

Perez. — Oh, thank you, gentle queen. 

Talavera. — I beg your pardon, but this man Colum- 
bus is surely a little afiected up about here [touching his 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 2B5 

head]. Why the verj^ children point to their foreheads 
as he passes. 

Queen. — Don Talavera, you are too severe ; now 
pause awhile, for I woul take a woman's counsel. 
Dona Beatrix, will you urge the claims of Columbus to 
me once more ? You are enthusiastic but not rash. 

King. — A woman and not rash. Oh ! 

Queen.— Dear Dona Beatrix, you must win the king 
over to our side. Proceed. 

Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella! Gracious queen and dear 
friend, something within my breast tells me that this 
man is intimately connected with the highest good and 
glory of Spain. Do not think of him as a vagrant 
dreamer, a nameless adventurer, hovering about courts 
for the sake of gaining honors and titles for himself; 
think rather of the sublimity of all that noble mind has 
conceived ; think of all that noble heart has suffered. 
For eighteen weary years he has toiled and hoped so 
bravely. Oh I there is a grandeur in such hope as his, 
and God will surely reward it. My queen, look not 
coldly upon such enterprises as his, calling them mere 
adventure. Know you not thait Adventure is the child 
of Prosperity ? And now, in these most prosperous 
days of Spain, it would be madness in you to let the 
banner-folds of another nation fly where yours dare not. 

Perez. — Oh, gracious sovereigns! did you know this 
man's modesty you would not doubt his honesty; on 
our first meeting, 'twas but a little bread and water for 
his child he asked. 

Page. — Don Luis St. Angel. 

Queen. — Just in time ; most welcome. 

King \to Talavera^. — We shall be overwhelmed. To 
the ladies this man is a host — sanguine as they. 

St. Angel. — Listen, your majesties, ere it is too late. 
If Senor Columbus is not at once patronized, he will 
quit the country, and this would, I believe, be an irre- 
parable loss to Spain. 

Why, oh ! why, when you have risked so much in so 
many perilous adventures, fear now to risk so little when 
the gain would be incalculable ? Consider, with its suc- 
cess ho^ ii^uch may be done toward extending your owt 



236 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

power and dominion ; how much for the glory of God 
and the exaltation of the Church ! 

Page. — Senor Christopher Columbus. 

Talavera [aside to the king']. — In a court-dress, too; 
the last time I saw him he was threadbare and looked 
most forlorn. 

Queen. — And is this Columbus ? Welcome, most 
welcome to our presence ! Now reveal without hesita- 
tion what thy hopes are should we see proper to grant 
the wished-for outfit. 

Columbus. — Ah! your majesties; could you but know 
of the tumult of wild hope that agitates me now. But 
I know you will listen patiently. 

Eighteen weary years have I sought for the means of 
traversing the ocean to the westward, and every day of 
all those years have my convictions grown stronger that 
all my hope should yet be realized. Far away over the 
broad and blue Atlantic lie fair islands, whose trees 
beckon, whose breezes whisper me to come, whose clear 
gushing fountains alone can cool my spirit's fever. 
Most gracious sovereigns, these dreams were born in 
Heaven. The}^ have haunted me from early boyhood. 

King. — Columbus, do your own words declare you to 
be a dreamer, then ? 

Talavera. — This is enchanting 1 Do you not think 
so, Dona Beatrix ? 

Dona Beatrix. — I do ! I believe this conviction is 
truly Heaven-sent. I believe that far toward the sun- 
set flowers bloom, forests wave, and waters flow in sweet 
expectancy of the coming of Columbus. 

Queen. — I am strangely moved. If it should be sol 
oh 1 if it should be that the banners of Castile and Ara- 
gon should float over now unknown lands ; that there 
the heathen should turn from his idols and bow before 
the cross. 

St. Angel. — Then act, oh, beloved queen ! upon the 
impulse of this present moment, or our great rivals, 
Portugal or France or England, may bear thither their 
flags. The present is the golden moment. I beg that 
you will, for your own sake and the honor of Spain, 
grant to Columbus what he asks. 

King. — But I would have reasons. We have sent to 



SCHOOLUAY DIALOGUES. 237 

our learned and scientific men to investigate this rare 
project, and many of them considered to have sound 
judgment have pronounced in its favor. Wherefore ? 

Columbus. — I arrange tliis under three heads. First, 
the nature of things ; second, the authority of learned 
writers ; third, the reports of navigators. 

Talavera. — This is a new story. A moment ago, 
islands far beyond nowhere were calling him. 

King. — Well, hear him. 

Columbus. — I can not doubt that the world is round — 

Talavera. — The man is crazy. 

Columbus. — Its shadow on the moon during an eclipse 
shows this, and there are many other reasons for believ- 
ing it to be as other planets. Supposing the world to 
be round, it is not reasonable that hundreds of leagues 
should be but an expanse of ocean devoid of land. Fur- 
ther, there are many reports of navigators to confirm 
me in my idea of land lying to the westward. The 
Canary and Cape Yerde Islands were once unknown ; 
why should we suppose them to be the boundaries of 
all knowledge we shall ever gain ? 

Perez. — Oh, let us aid him to explore the wonders 
and secrets of the universe ! 

St. Angel. — Here is a splendid opportunity to sur- 
pass all kings and princes. Let it not pass. Even his 
failure can not reflect disgrace upon you. 

Columbus. — But I shall not fail, my heart tells me I 
shall not ! I would that you could see how sometimes 
before my mental vision is unrolled the broad bright 
vista of the future. How wonderfully in God's provi- 
dence do the chariot wlieels of human progress roll on ! 
The newly discovered art of printing has awakened the 
world on this side the water, and oft I dream it shall be 
carried to enlighten islands and continents afar. 

Talavera. — He talks of a world on this side the 
water, now I believe that I have more faith in that than 
the one on the other side. 

King. — Let him go on. What more, Columbus ? 

Columbus. — There can never again be a dark age. 
Never shall the new light of knowledge spread abroad by 
the power of the printing press be trampled out. There 
will be no pause now for the career of science j and should 



238 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

God will that all these high-born hopes of poor Colum- 
bus should fall to the ground, even then he would not 
quite despair; some other happier man will take up his 
theories, while the sphere of navigation will extend, and 
perhaps, yet, some great discoverer, unshackled b}^ the 
impediments that have beset my pathway, when he 
touches upon some beautiful sunset shores toward which 
this hand pointed him, will remember me — will weep for 
what I might have been ! 

BEATRix.-^Oh, queen ! this must not be 1 Would 
you could see with me the grandeur of this enterprise ! 
Tell me, could this man live the good life he has lived, 
struggling through poverty and ridicule, and wearing 
disappointments — yet, amid all, cling to this idea — it 
there was not truth in it ? 

Queen. — I know not what to think I 

King. — Great caution is necessary. 

St. Angel. — To you, my king, that word may have 
but a slight meaning ; but, oh ! I know, to Columbus, 
it is a word of almost heart-breaking import— y^ears, 
and years, and years — and then to speak in his presence 
of caution. 

Perez. — But never was man so endowed with jja- 
tience as this man ; he considers all else light in com- 
parison with this enterprise to which he has devoted 
himself. Dividing his scanty means with his aged 
father at Genoa, traveling on foot with thread-bare 
garments, with a hungry child, pausing but to ask for 
a little bread and water. 

Talavera. — And recompensed your kindness with 
his wild stories. 

Perez. — Yes, more than recompensed. I received his 
opinions with unwavering faith. I wish, for his sake, 
that I were king. 

King. — A common wish, but for a most uncommon 
reason, to benfit another. 

Beatrix. — Good Perez, I thank you for your kind- 
ness to Columbus, and trust that God will reward you 
for it. Surely, after death, you will be exalted into a 
white-winged angel of Hope. 

Queen. — Go on, Columbus, your talk is pleasant iu 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 239 

my ear, whether it be of 3'our dreams or of j^our 
reasons. 

GoLrMBUS. — Oh! most indulgent queen ! listen, then, 
a little longer ! It must be that there is land lying to- 
^vard the sunset. Have you not heard how on the coast 
of the Cape Yerde Islands two men were cast up by the 
waves of the Atlantic, differing both in color and feature 
from any known race ? also, a cane curiously wrought, but 
bearing no mark of iron instruments ? Trunks of strange 
trees have been found far OQt at sea, and unknown reeds 
and grasses. These islands, or this land, then, await 
discovery; and now, that 3'ou have conquered the Moors, 
why not turn your attention to a more important expe- 
dition than you have yet fitted out ? 

Queen. — Ah ! why ? 

King. — Why has not your own country, Genoa, hear- 
kened to you ? 

Columbus. — I grieve to say that my own land, the 
republic of Genoa, is now in a languishing condition, 
and can not aid me. 

Queen. — What do you say, Ferdinand ? 

King. — Say ! AYhy now that we have conquered the 
Moors, and are acknowledged one of the first, if not the 
first power in Europe, j'ou can busy yourself among 
your jewels — and 

Queen. — My jewels! I — must I pla}- with baubles, 
while the richer jewels of a royal mind are strewn to 
the winds, and great hopes perish, and heathen souls are 
shipwrecked ? 

King. — After years of the turmoil of war the natioD 
needs rest. 

Perez. — Idleness is the file that wears away pros 
perity, be it ever so great. 

St. Angel. — Hope on, Columbus. What though you 
meet not here the aid you ask ? A recent letter from the 
King of Portugal invites your return ; and the learned 
men of France bend, even now, o'er these maps and 
charts. Conviction must grow to certainty as they gaze. 
Oh, Isabella, Ferdinand, Beatrix, this is no dream ! Co- 
lumbus, wh}' linger? Thy life is passing; waste not 

I will go 



240 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

with you to France, or return with j^ou to Portugal ; or 
we will set sail for distant England. 

Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella, before it is too late, con- 
sider — can you, will you, allow all this honor, glory, 
and power, now within your grasp, to pass to another ? 
Ah ! I sigh to think how much less worthy that other 
sovereign will be than my own. 

St. Angel. — We ask so little^but three small vessels. 
Let us away I The enterprise promises too much to be 
rejected elsewhere, and perchance English sails will first 
whiten some glad far-distant waters, while the lazy Span- 
iard hovers about his own shores, as snails coil in their 
shell tenements, that heed not and know not of aught 
else. We must go! 

Perez. — May all good angels attend you ; and I and 
the good brothers will care for your child. 

Talavera. — Tuat everlasting child ; give it a little 
bread and water ! 

St. Angel. — Time passes. 

Queen. — I echo it, time passes ! but oh, Columbus, 
think you, if you do undertake this voyage, this ventur- 
ing upon the unknown deep, that 3^ou will certainly find 
the wished-for islands ? Perchance they exist only in 
your own imagination — nnd you might go drifting, drift- 
ing, drifting, the sport of winds and waves for years. 

Columbus. — One hour, with Heaven's blessins; restino 
on it, is more than time enough to find a world ! 

King. — I would tha' world were found. 

Queen. — It shall b^. Heaven willing, for I will pledge 
my ro^^al jewels that he may go. 

Beatrix. — 1 am too happy 1 

King. — My good Isabella. 

Columbus. — I have not lived in vain ; I could weep 
like a child ! 

St. Angel. — I could laugh, and leap and shout like a 
boy! 

Perez. — The saints be praised 1 

Talavera. — I have nothing to say, so say nothing. 

Queen [_to Page]. — Bring me my casket of most pre- 
cious jewels. \_To Beatrix.] — Take thou the brigiitest 
jewel from my crown; and undo this necklace, worn 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 241 

since childhood. M^^ soul now seems flooded with the 
grandeur of this enterprise. [ZTere the Page returns.'] 

Beatrix. — But pause ; this is the jewel of jewels in a 
crown of Castile ! and this lovely necklace — can they 
not be saved ? • 

Queen. — Nay, nay, they charm me no longer. Co- 
lumbus, now I feel that thy hopes shall be realized. 
Noble, patient, long-suffering one, forgive our tardiness. 
I feel that you will give to Spain her crowning triumph. 

King. — Columbus, I will hope as the Queen does, and 
shall ever feel grateful that you have conferred upon us 
the honor of giving patronage to this great scheme. 
May it succeed ! 

Beatrix. — Fair be the winds, and bright the sides, 
and calm the waves for thee, Columbus. May many a 
ti^trange flower bloom in thy pathway. May sweetest 
song-birds cheer thee, and mayest thou drink of the 
waves of glad fountains, and rest in the shadow of trees 
even lovelier than those of Andalusia. 

Queen. — And there will the blessed Cross go^and the 
story of the dear Redeemer. 

Columbus. — Yes, lovel}^ Queen, there shall our blessed 
religion go ; and ever, next to my love for it, will I cher- 
ish fond memories of thee. All the uncertainty, all the 
danger before me, are as nothing in th s proud and 
happy hour. Now, indeed, under this new-born rainbow 
of hope, does the future stand arrayed in dazzling sheen 
I dream that there may come a time when even all Mm 
YO\)Q may be a field too narrow for the proud step of 
Freedom ; that an enlightenment far, far beyond what 
earth has yet known, may rise and stream over lands 
that lie towaiM the setting sun. Now I have almost 
too much, for Isabella, for Ferdinand, for Spain, for 
the future, for the great interests of humanity, for 
these dear friends, and for the voice within my own 
breast, that ridicule, neglect, poverty and time could 
never silence — and for the religion of our fathers. 
Now, for the first time, I feel it all in its awful splen- 
dor, and it almost overcomes me — St. Angel, Dona Bea- 
trix, my Queen ! 

King. — I will trust that all is well ! 

Perez — I go to tell the good news to the Brothers 1 
16 



242 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Talavera. — There is no mistake ; the man is crazy 

[ Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 2. — King and queen seated, enter Dona Beatrix. 

Beatrix. — This is a most glorious day for Spain I 
the joy bells ring, and the shouts of glad thousands 
tremble upon the air I He has returned ! our brightest 
anticipations have been more than realized ! Thine is a 
glorious reign, and long to be remembered in history ! 
Spain stands first amongst Christian nations ! she has 
now ascended the proudest heights of 'triumph ! — - 

And now she may rest with her banners furled, 
On the heights of Fame she hath found a world ! 
And what hath she more to do ? 

\_Enter Page, announcing ''Don Talavera.''^'] 

Talavera. — The procession is coming this way, all 
sorts of gew-gaws along, and some strange red men, 
too. A terrble fuss in the streets, all the ladies at the 
windows. I used to think Columbus crazy, now every 
body else seems to be, 

[Page announces ''Father Perez.''^'] 

Perez. — A happy contrast this, to our last reception 
here, then fears were mingled with our hopes, now our 
highest, highest hopes, are lost in perfect triumph I 
Now, Columbus comes surrounded by the flower of 
Spain's chivalry, and receives the homage of the bravest 
and fairest. 

Queen. — This is the triumph hour of Isabella's life I 
This day shall furnish the greatest theme for the 
greatest painter 1 the noblest subject for the noblest 
poet, for many, many a year to come. 

King. — I am lost in astonishment and overwhelmed 
with delight 1 This wonderful man ! this great Colum- 
bus ! why kings are insignificant by his side ! I can 
scarcely realize now, that he is the same follower of the 
court, who from 3^ear to year pressed upon us, what we, 
with our more limited ideas, conceived to be but wild 
schemes. Oh, Perez 1 your goodness is rewarded now 1 

Perez — Aye, at last. It seems to me but yesterday, 
he came to our convent gate a poor, unknown stranger, 
and ashed "A little bread and water for his child!" 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 243 

ALAVERA.— "^h, preserve me ! must I hear that 
again ? 

[_Page announces, "Senor Columbus, Don Louis St. An- 
gel, and an Indian, a reaUndian I^''] 

CoLdMBUS. — My noble sovereigns, all the honor is 
yours, I was but the humble instrument in the hands of 
God, of giving to Castile and Leon a New World ! 

St. Angel. — Not Portugal, not France, not England, 
to have this triumph, but it is for Spain, only for Spain, 
oh ! how wild are mj^ transports ! 

Queen. — Heaven has smiled upon our efforts, and 
oh, St Angel ! how shall we thank you enough ? It was 
your eloquence, that persuaded our doubting hearts ! 
You, too, Beatrix, had your own high part in this, and 
Perez, your honest friendship is rewarded now, and my 
noble Indian friend is welcome. Pedro, a chair for 
Columbus. 

Beatrix. — I saw all this long ago ; I knew these glad 
tidings would one day thrill through Spain. St. Angel, 
we are surely scarce less happy than Columbus. 

St. Angel. — To me, also, was this day revealed — I 
knew it must come ; I looked on it as a certainty. 

Talavera. — How apt is every son and daughter of 
Adam to greet all events, great and small, w4th " There, 
I knew it !" 

Queen. — Speak not lightly, now, my noble Talavera; 
the country has been discovered and gold and gems 
brought thence ; now la}'- aside your caution, and rejoice 
with us. 

King. — Yes, Talavera. we have nothing more to risk. 
I deem myself a good king, but acknowledge Isabella a 
better queen. 

Talavera. — I do rejoice with you ; but look you now, 
when Columbus sailed right in the direction of this 
land, how could he help finding it ? It was an easy 
matter enough; give me ships and men, and I'll go 
myself 

Columbus. — Will vour maiesty o-ive me an eo-o-? 

Queen. — An egg ? 

Columbus. — Yes, only an (tgg. I wish to favor Tala- 
vera with a trifling illustration of his position. 



244 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Queen [to page]. — Pedro, bring Senor Columbus an 

eo-or. 

°^ 

King. — What can he want with an Qgg ; 

Queen. — What, Ferdinand 1 have you curiosity about 
such a trifle ? 

King. — Not much ! 

Q,ueen. — Tell us, oh Columbus, somewhat of that far 
wondrous heathen land ? 

Beatrix — Oh, yes ! we long to hear of it. 

Columbus. — Words can not paint its glories, its won- 
ders, and its beauties. The waves are as pure as 
crystal, the flowers ai'e of indescribable beaut}^ the 
trees are glorious to behold ! Ah, Beatrix, your wishes 
followed me there. The inhabitants are simple as chil- 
dren. Their lives beautiful as a dream of romance. 
And, lovely queen, there was not an hour that I did not 
think of and bless you. [Enter page with an egg.] 

King. — The egg ! Talavera, favor us again Avith 3^our 
last remark, that I may feel the full force of this illus- 
tration. 

Talavera. — I said 'twas an easy matter to reach 
this land ; give me men and ships and I'll go. 

[Here Columbus takes the egg, and asks Talavera, 
St. Angel, and Perez to balance it — all try vainly.] 

King. — Here, I'll try, too. I never thought of such a 
thing before, and have seen a thousand eggs. [ Trying, 
he goes on.] Why, I can't. How, now, Columbus I 
why I can't do it, and I'm a king ; it looks as though it 
ought to be done. 1 wonder if the Kings of England, 
France, or Portugal can do this. Such a contrary egg ! 
yet it looks like all others. I'd like to do this ! who 
ever did? Here, Isabella, 3^ou may try; you, too, 
Beatrix ; curiosity will surely prompt you ladies to do 
your utmost. [Both try in vain.] 

Queen. — Curiosit}^ patience, perseverance, all aie 
vain I 

King. — I don't believe any body can do it. 

Talavera. — Who would want to ? 

St. Angel. — Columbus, do balance this e^gg, I am 
sure you can. 

[Columbus taking the egg, balances it by striking it 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 245 

upon the table, with just force enough to break the 
shell slightly at the small end, when it stands 
firmly.] 
Talavera. — Any body could do it that way 1 
King. — Ha, ha, ha. Yes, since Columbus has shown 
you how I Bravo ! bravo ! 
Perez. — Most excellent ! 
St. Angel. — Always right I 
Beatrix. — How charming! 

Queen. — The world contains bat one Columbus I 
Talavera [offering his hand to Columbus, who takes 
it], — Now 1 am heartily your friend ! 



THE SILYEK DOLLAR. 

CHARACTERS. 

Harry Seetin. Mr. Berkley. 

A Flower Girl, afterwards Mrs. Berkley. 



Scene L — A counting-house. Harry Seetin discovered 
with newspaper in his hand. 

Harry.— Not much doing to-day — that's certain! 
Well, if I just had the time and the money to spare I'd 
go to hear Professor Baker lecture to-night, but I must 
be here until nine o'clock, and besides this, my funds are 
rather low, and I will have to be economical. I wonder 
if Mr. Patterson isn't going to raise my wages soon 
I think it is high time he would if he is going to live up 
to his promise. If he doesn't I'll have to seek employ- 
ment elsewhere. Hello ! who comes here ? 

[Enter Eliza, a little girl, ivith a basket of bouquets.] 

Eliza. — Please sir, wont you buy a bouquet ? 

Harry. — Bouquet ? No ! What do I want with a 
bouquet? I'm sure I've got no fair lady friend, to pre- 
sent it to, and, as for myself, I either haven't the time to 
admire bouquets, or else I haven't any taste. No, little 
girl, I don't want a bouquet. 

Eliza. — But please sir, do buy one. I've been trjdng 



246 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to sell all day, and no one cares any thing for them. 
Please buy one, sir, for we need money very much. lAl- 
most crying.'] 

Harry. — Well, well, don't cry little girl. You say 
we need money very much. Whom besides yourself do 
you support by selling bouquets ? 

Eliza. — My mother, sir; and she has been very sick 
for a long time and I can scarcely make enough to keep 
ourselves alive and from being turned out of doors hy 
the landlord. 

Harry. — Well, I don't want a bouquet, but here's a 
dollar [_hoAids money]; take it, and may you soon see 
better times ! 

Eliza. — Oh, thank you, sir, I will remember you as 
long as I live, and may God bless you and 

Harry. — Oh, never mind, little girl — it's nothing. 
Kun home to your poor sick mother and be kind to her. 

Eliza. — Oh, you are a kind man and I wish there 
were more like you in the world. [^Exit Eliza.] 

Harry. — There's another dollar gone. Well, that cuts 
off my supply of cigars for awhile, but I don't care. 
Mother used to tell me to cast my bread upon the waters 
and after many daj^s I would receive it. Well, I've cast 
a dollar away, or rather, I've cast a good many cigars 
awa}^ and bestowed a dollar on a poor little girl. Won- 
der if 'twill ever return. I don't know why it is that 
all the poor little girls come to me for money and never 
ask Mr. Patterson. I'm sure he is a thousand times 
abler to give than I am. Well, I don't regret giving 
this little girl the dollar for she certainly is honest — I'm 
sure of that ; and then her mother is sick, and they are 
very poor. I wish I had money enough to place all the 
p*oor people in the world in comfortable circumstances, 
and make mj^self a little more comfortable too. 
\_Curtain falls.] 

Scene 2. — Room in Mr. Berkley^s house. Time, even- 
ing. Mr. and Mrs. Berkley discovered. Ten years 
are supposed to have elapsed between first an(i second 
scenes. 
Mrs. Berkley. — Who was that man who was in here 

a sho"^ time ago ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 247 

Mr. Berkley. — His name is Seetin — Harry Seetin, I 
believe. He came to apply for the situation of book- 
keeper. He said he had been at the store and found it 
closed and thought he would call here. 

Mrs. B. — Did you give him the situation ? 

Mr. B. — No, I didn't promise it to him, but told him 
t,o call at the store to-morrow and I would give him an 
answer. He makes a very poor mouth of it. He sa^^s 
his wife has been sick for some time, and that his two 
little children have barely enough to keep them alive. 
One doesn't know whether to believe half the stories one 
hears or not. However, this man looks honest enough, 
and from his appearance I know he hasn't a very great 
share of this world's goods. I told him to call at the 
store to-morrow and I would give him an answer. 

Mrs. B. — Give him the situation. I ask it as a favor. 

Mr. B. — And why, my love, do you take such an in- 
terest in the man ? 

Mrs. B. — I will tell you. You know that ten years 
ago, and long before you married me, I was very poor. I 
was out one day trying to sell bouquets to make some- 
thing with which to purchase some delicacy for my 
mother, who was very sick. I could not sell a single 
bouquet. No person would buy. They would not even 
look at them. I went into Mr. Patterson's store and 
found this young man there and asked him to buy. He 
replied that he didn't want a bouquet — that he didn't 
care any thing for them, but he gave me a silver dollar. 
He would hardly let me thank him for it; and I ran 
home very happy. I have seen Mr. Seetin several times 
since, but not since we were married until this evening, 
and never dreamed that he was in such straightened 
circumstances. When I saw him go out of the door I 
knew him to be the same person who had befriended me 
ten years ago, and now, as a favor, T ask that you give 
him the situation. 

Mr. B. — Most assuredly shall he have the situation. 
There are two other applicants who come with rather 
better recommendations than does Mr. Seetin, but he 
shall have the preference. And, my dear, you are very 
right to remember those who were kind to you long ago, 
when yru were poor and when you needed kindness most 



248 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

I will write a note to Mr. Seetin this evening and send with 
Thomas, telling him he can have the situation. Fortu- 
nately he left his address with me. 

Mrs. B. — You need not go to so much trouble, Wil- 
liam. You know he will call at the store to-morrow. 

Mr. B. — I know ; but, somebod}' has said that delaj^s 
are dangerous, and it's true. From what Mr. Seetin 
said, I know that he and his family are very much in 
want. And, my dear here is a one hundred dollar note 
[hunding money']. You shall give that to him — a dollar 
for every cent he gave you — and write him a note stating 
that it is given in grateful remembrance of the silver 
dollar bestowed on a poor little girl ten years ago. 
[ Curtain falls.'] 



OIL ON THE BRAIN. 

CHARACTERS. 

Squire Hopeful, a retired alderman in moderate circumstances, 

Samuel BaLxMoral, a dry goods clerk. 

Mr. Simon Fogy, his uncle, a garrulous church deacon. 

Bob, small son of the squire. 

Fred, his cousin. 

Caroline, daughter of the squire, and loved by Samuel. 

Miss Arabella, her maiden aunt. 



\_Enter Simon Foyy and his nephew.']^ 
Simon. — If you do, you're a fool, that's alL 
Samuel. — Why, uncle, I see no harm in trying; be- 
sides, how can I hope to support Caroline properly, situ- 
ated as I am. I have now a chance to become, it may 
he, wealthy; at least to greatly improve my present con- 
ilition. I am assured by these, who are well informed^ 
that this is an excellent company. 

Simon. — Excellent nonsense! Xow mark what I tell 
you — no good will ever arise from this oil speculation. 
I have been opposed to it from the first, and I have had 
no reason to change my opinion. It is nothing more 
nor less than gambling. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 249 

S iMUEL. — Uncle, I shall beg leave to differ from 3^ou. 
You know Shakspeare says, " There is a tide in the 
affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to for- 
tune." 

Simon. — I am pretty sure the bard did not allude to 
Oil Creek. 

Samuel. — Well, just as you please. I have decided 
to invest. [Uxit.'] 

Simon, — It seems as if every one had gone crazy ! 
From morning until night, I hear nothing but oil I oil ! 
OIL I on the streets, in the cars, at home, abroad, in 
fact everywhere, it is the only theme of conversation. I 
have become so sick of the subject that I hate to hear 
the word oil mentioned. 

\_Enter squire with pa].)ers in his hand.'] 

Simon. — Good-morning, squire ; what have j^ou there ? 

Squire. — Something of importance, I assure jom. 
We are about to organize an oil company, offering ex- 
cellent inducements to those who, like you and me, have 
but a small capital and wish to see it increased. I 
thought that you, being a particular friend of mine, 
should be informed of the chance before it became gen- 
erally known. Just look at this prospectus ! 

Simon [throwing the paper aside]. — Don't talk to me 
of oil companies and the ruinous speculation which they 
cause ! I am opposed to it, sir ; conscientiously and re- 
ligiously opposed to it. I wouldn't invest a dime in 
any of your boasted companies ; they are swindles, sir, 
from beginning to end. 

Squire [aside]. — What a queer old grampus he is. 
Well, Simon ! if I can not induce you to embrace the 
present opportunity and make your fortune I must bid 
you good-morning. [Exit.] 

Simon. — I, Simon Fogy, deacon of a church, invest in 
oil ! that's a pretty idea ! The good book says : '* Lay 
not up for yourselves treasures on earth," and if I do, 
it shall be something more secure than coal oil. Bah I 
it makes me sick to think of it. 

[Enter Caroline, singing :] 

"And every one is troubled with 
Oil on the brain." 



250 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Simon. — I repel the insinuation with scorn ; I, for 
one, remain uncontaminated by the pre '/ailing reckless 
infatuation. 

Caroline. — 'Why, is it possible, Mr. Fogy ! that yon 
have failed to take the necessary steps to enrich your- 
self, at a time when fortunes are made in a day, and 
millionaires are almost as plentiful as beggars! But 
see, what a splendid piece of music Mr. Balmoral has 
given me ! 

Simon. — A most miserable subject at any rate. 

Caroline. — Do you really think so ? I don't ; and 
if 3^ou will come and hear me play it, perhaps, you will 
think differently. Well ! if j^ou wont I must go alone. 

Simon. — IS'c^w, one might think that women and girls 
would be exempt from such foolishness; but, alas! I'm 
afraid it is not the case. Ah ! here comes the charming 
Miss Arabella. [Enter Miss Arabella.'] 

Simon. — Pleasant morning, ma'am. 

Arabella. — Yery pleasant, indeed, Mr. Fogy. Have 
you seen the Squire this morning ? 

Simon. — Yes, ma'am, and am sorry to hear from his 
own lips that he has been foolish enough to put his 
money into oil stocks. 

Arabella. — He alwaj's was a fool as far as money 
was concerned. 

Simon. — What could have prompted him to take so 
rash a step ? 

Arabella. — I really can not tell. I suppose he be- 
lieves it will make a wealthy man of him ; but in my 
opinion, he will never realize a single cent of the money 
he has been dunce enough to invest. 

Simon. — I agree with you on that point. 

Arabella. — You can not imagine, Mr. Fogy, how 
changed he has become. Now, last night, for instance, 
instead of coming home at the proper time, as a decent 
man sliould do, he staid away until far after tea time, 
and when he did come, he brought with him a great 
crowd of men, and insisted on us getting supper for 
them. After they had stuffed themselves full of every 
thing eatable in the house, they all marched into the 
»^est room ; and there they sat arid smoked their filthy 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 251 

tobacco, and talked of oil and stocks, and flowing-wells 
and certificates, till my head reeled, and it required a 
pretty good dose of the old legitimate castor oil to set 
me riojht again. 

Simon. — In my opinion the world has gone mad, and 
not content with performing its daily and annual revo- 
lutions in the customary manner, has conceived the 
idea of greasing its axis and orbit, in order to move 
more expeditiously, and with less effort. 

Arabella. — Very true ! very true ! I But who have 
w^e here ? \_Enter Fred and Boh, singing.'] 

Bob. — My dear Aunt Bell, did jom never hear tell, of 
the man that drowned himself in. a fifty barrel well ? 

Fred. — When he found out his stocks he couldn't 
sell. lExit] 

Arabella. — Why, even the children seem to have 
caught the infection ! [Enter Caroline hastily.] 

Caroline. — Have you heard the news ? 

Arabella. — No ! what is it ? 

Caroline. — I don't know as I can tell you properly, 
but papgi's company has, as he says, "struck oil," and 
the yield is so great, that the stock has risen — I don't 
know how much and he is going to sell his shares im- 
liied lately. 

Arabella. — I don't believe a word of it ! 

Simon. — Nor I, either. \_Enter Samuel.] 

Samlel. — Now, my dear Caroline, congratulate me. 
"Che stock which I bought, has, in this short time, risen 
60 much per share, that I have been induced to sell, and 
have realized again far beyond my greatest expectations. 

Caroline. — I am so glad ! [Enter Squire.] 

vSquire. — Hurrah ! Our fortunes are made, Arabella ! 
1 knew money was to be made out of this oil business. 
Why, how are you, Sam ? I hear that you, too, have been 
Buccessful ? 

Sam. — It is indeed true, and through the beneficial 
influence of such success, I am enabled to ask 3'ou foi' 
the hand of your daughter, without experiencing the 
disagreeable sensation of being unable to support her 

Squire. — I admire your candor, Sam — ^}^ou shal. 
have her with all my heart. [Joining their hands.'} 
May God bless you both ! 



252 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

[Fx't all hut Hiss Arabella and Simon.'] 

Arabella — I believe there is some substance in this 
oil speculation after all, Mr. Fogy. 

Simon. — It begins to look so, indeed ; and my dear 
Arabe la, as we have just seen, success in love followed 
fast success in the oil business. May I not hope, then, 
in case similar good fortune should fall to my lot, that 
the lovely Miss Arabella will accept the proffered heart 
and hand of Simon Fogy ? May I not ? do not say no. 
[Affectedly.] 

Arabella [with emotion]. — There is no refusing you, 
Simon ! [Fall^ into his arms.] 

Simon. — It's oil right ; never venture never win. As 
far as oil's concerned, I'm in. [Exit.] 



GOING TO BE AN ORATOR. 

Scene. — Two hoys meeting ; one with Webster^ s large 
dictionary under his arm. 

Harry. — Halloo, John ! where are you going with 
that big book ? 

John. — I'm going to return it to Professor Niles, of 
whom I borrowed it. 

Harry. — What is it ? 

John. — Webster's unabridged vocabulary of the En- 
glish language. 

Harry. — What have you been doing with it ? 

John. — Wh}-, you see, I intend to be a public orator, 
and I wish to insert some large words occasionall}^, to 
make my oration sound more grand and eloquent. 

Harry. — Grandiloquent, you mean. I hope you will 
let me know when you deliver your maiden speech, for I 
wouldn't miss hearing it for considerable. 

John. — I see you are making fun of me, Harr3^ But 
you shall hear m}'^ maiden speech, and be made to ac- 
knowledge its merits. 

Harry. — I hope I am always willing to acknowledge 
true meritf John ; but how long have you been searching 
th« dictionary for big words ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 253 

Jonx. — Oh! about three weeks; and I assure 5'on I 
have a fine catalogue of them all cut and dried for my 
advantage. 

Harry. — They may prove to your disadvantage ; but 
come, here you have been studying big words for three 
weeks, and I believe that I can use as many as you can, 
now ! 

John. — Well, 111 try you, my boy ! Now, when I say 
some high sounding word or phrase, you see if you cau 
get one to match it, will you ? 

Harry. — Yes ; go ahead ! 

John. — Harry. — 

Demagogue, Pedagogue. 

Exaggerate, Eefrigerate. 

Levigation, Amalgamation. 

Aristocratic, Epigrammatic. 

Antagonism, Anachronism. 

Ecclesiastical, Enthusiastical. 

Latitudinarian, Uniformitarian. 

Uncharacteristically, Ineffervescibility. 

Vicissitudinary, Usufructuary. 

Indiscrimination, Individualization. 

Yalculiferous, Antiomniferous. 

Transubstantiate, Pulmonibranciate, 

American institutions, Voluntary contributions. 

Evangelical denominations, Multitudinous associations 
John. — The ebon opaqueness of the nocturnal hour. 
Harry. — The concentrated quintessence of every thing sour. 

John [scratches his head, and apparently tries to think 
of other examples']. — Why, Harry, I guess you've been 
picking big words out of the dictionary, too. Are you 
preparing yourself £or an orator? 

Harry. — Xot at all ; my inclinations run in a differ- 
ent direction. But do you intend to devote 3'ourlifeto 
speechifj'ing? 

John. — To be sure I do. 

Harry. — Well, may I inquire to what subject 3^ou in- 
tend chiefly to apply your eloquence ? 

John. — Oh ! I shall not limit myself to any particular 
subject, but take up whatever is most popular, and dropit 
as soon as I find something better calculated to win 
public applause. I have made up m}- mind to create a 
sensatioi/ in the world, and I am determined to do it. 



25-i SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

I shall yet see the daj^ that my praises are in every man's 
mouth. 

Harry. — Well, that would be very pleasant, to be 
sure, provided you merit such adultation 

John [interrupting Mm]. — Of course I shall merit 
it. I shall study eloquence and elegance until I become 
perfectly irresistible. 

Harry. — But what is your primary object, John ? 
You surely have some purer, nobler motive than self- 
aggrandizement ? 

John. — Why — why — I don't know as I understand 
what you mean. What do you think should be my pri- 
mary object, as you call it? 

Harry. — I think the first object in the life of every 
person should be to do good. 

John. — Pshaw, Harry ! you know as well as I do, 
that the world is full of persons who take all the respon- 
sibility of doing good upon themselves ; besides, I 
should have to give up my darling project of becoming 
an oratoi, if I attempt to play the philanthropist. 

Harry, — By no means, John ; you could so combine 
the orator and philanthropist as to form a most desira- 
ble character, instead of pursuing the useless, selfish 
career you have marked out for yourself. 

John. — Convince me of that if you can. 

Harry. — Well, then, let your first object be to benefit 
others ; next, remember that every subject has two sides ; 
and instead of advocating the most popular side and 
running after strange gods, and still stranger whims axid 
theories, study carefully which side is right, and the:!i 
oring all your eloquent artillery against the opposing 
side ; devote yourself to the redress of real grievances ; 
bravely battle for the right ; and you will not be unde- 
serving the praise that will surel}^ attend you. 

John. — Why, Harry, you are really growing eloquent, 
and I am half inclined to adopt ynur suggestions, and 
try to live for something high and noble. 

Harry. — K you should, the world might be both wiser 
and better for your having lived in it. 

John. — Well, I will think of it and tell you my deci- 
sion when we meet again. Good-morning I 

Harry. — Good-morning, sir. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 255 

QUACKERY. 

CHARACTERS. 

Db. Pedanticus. Mike Miligan, an Irishman. 



Scene. — A doctor^s office. Dr. Pedanticus putting vtala 
in his saddle-bags. Enter Mike. 

Mike. — Good-mornin' docthur. 

Dr. — Good-morning, Mil^e. Take a chair. \_Mike sits 
down.2 Well, Mike, how is your health ? 

Mike. — Oh, bad enough, docthur. I'm afeard I'm 
a-goin' to have the bloody \^oo as in took'] cholera, what's 
on it's way across the say. Oh, docthur, caiiH you pre- 
vint me from havin' the bloody disase ? Can't j^ou, 
docthur ? sa.y now, sure you can. 

Dr. — Well, Mike, what induces you to onceive the 
idea that 3^ou are about to be visited with an attack of 
the terrible Asiatic epidemic ? 

Mike. — Well, you see, docthur, about a wake ago I 
got into a little fight with Jimmy Malooney, and the 
bloody spalpeen hit me a lick agin the stomach, and 
iver since that time I've had a quare falin, sort a-like 
cholera. Say, docthur dear, what can you do for me ? 

Dr. — Well, Mike, I will derivicate the diagnosis per- 
taining to the symptomatic indications, and then ascer- 
tain what remedial remedies to apply. 

Mike. — Yis, docthur, do ; sa [.s-ee] what you can do for 
me, docthur, for I'm afeard I'm a goin' to have the blood}^ 
cholera. 

Dr. — Let me see j^our tongue, Mike. [^3Iike puts out 
his tongue.'] The indications are of a rather heterogi- 
nary character. How is your appetite, Mike ? 

Mike. — Me appetite is very wake, docthur, ver3' wake 
indade. I don't ate more'n half a loaf of rye bread, six 
paces of mate, and fourteen petaties at one male, and 
as dhrink, nothin' will lay on my sthomach but whisky. 

Dr. — I would not advise you to indulge very greatly 
in whisky, as it has a deleterious effect upon the sub- 
Unguinary diaphoritic periosteum of the diaphragm. 



256 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mike. — Oh, docthur, I can't git along without whisky, 
at all at all. Me health would give way inthirely if it 
wasn't for the dhrop of dhrink. 

Dr. — Let me feel your pulse, Mike. \^Feels his pulse.'} 

Mike. — Does it bate regular, docthur ? 

Dr. — It's action is rather efferoesical. 

Mike. — Yis, sir. I thought so, raeself, docthur. 

Dr. — How do you rest at night, Mike ? 

Mike. — I rest on a bed, now ; but before I got sick, 
Bridget made me slape on the floor. ^Pronounce flure.} 

Dr.— -I mean rlo you sleep well ? 

Mike. — Yis, sir. Excipt whin little Pat hollers like 
a wild cat for a dhrink of wather, and whin I git the 
wather he wants a pace of bread ; and so he kapes me 
runnin' all night long. 

Dr. — Well, Mike, I'll tell you exactly what is the 
matter with you. I'm not one of the class of physicians 
that keep their patients in the dark as respects the 
nature of their complaints. 

Mike. — Yis, do, docthur ; let me hare all aboot it, for 
I'm dreadfully afeard of cholera, bad luck to the bloody 
disase. 

Dr. — The transverse colon of the recto lymphatics is 
prevented from performing its proper functions, in con- 
sequence of the duplicatures of the j^osterior auricular 
temporo malillary esophagus, pressing against the facial 
urtery of the duodenum, located upon the meso rectum 
of the four layers of the great omentum. Also the aper- 
ture of the meatus auditoiius externis is obstructed, by 
coao-ulated secretions formed in the heart of the thorax. 
Also the seratus porticus superior is very much dilated, 
from the pressure upon it of the levator angali scapulae, 
and the flexor longus poUicis pedus tendon. 

Mike. — Oh, docthur, I knode it was something lik 
that was the mather with me. Oh, be-gorra, docthur, I 
kin niver git over so many ailments. Oh, docthur, do 
you think I can git all thim things fixed up all right 
ngin. 

Dr. — Oh, 3^es; you needn't be alarmed if you will 
faithfully follow my prescriptions. [JDoctor . prepares 
medicine.^ Here [giving him a via!~\ is the double ex- 
tract ofKramina ^rianda; take half a teaspoonful upon 



SCHOOLDAY E.ALOGuES. 257 

going to bed, and the same quantity half an hour before 
each meal. You see, Mike, I alwa^ys let mj patients 
know exactly what I give them. Here is an infusion 
of Lauro Oerusus Yirginiana, intended to promote the 
proper action of the external plantar of the internal cal- 
canean. Take twent}' drops twice a day ; at three 
o'clock and again at seven. After taking these reme- 
dies three days, you will be entirely well. Here is also 
a small box of pills, consisting of Hydrargyri chloridi 
mitis cum ipecacuanhae. 

Mike. — There is none of the bloody mercmy in 'em, 
is there ? 

Dr. — Oh, none at all, they are perfectly safe ; take 
six pills at a time, twice a day, at ten A. m., and again 
at two p. M. 

Mike. — Good-by, docthur, God bless you. 

Dr. — Good-day, Mike. 



TWO FAULTS. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Nellie and Sarah, sisters at a boarding-school ; Sarah aged 
Fixteen, Nellie, fourteen and a-half. 
Mary, their mutual friend, aged seventeen. 
Mr. Ckabster, professor of matheixiiTics. 



Scene 1. — A room in the building, Sarah and Mary, 

busy at their books. Enter Nellie, humming softly to 

herself. 

Mi.RY. — Nellie please don't sing any more, that's a 
good child, it disturbs me and I do so want to under- 
stand this problem. 

Sarah. — Take jomv book, Nellie, and attend to your 
lessons immediately. If 3^ou don't alter j^our conduct, 
I will positivel}^ write to papa. You are a perpetual 
mortification to me. 

Nellie. — Really, Miss Perfection, it grieves me be- 
yond measure, to see you lay the matter so much to 
heart. I am afraid your angelic spirit will yet be 
17 



268 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

further tried. I know not what dark deed I may yet 
commit. 

[Pins a green ribbon to SaraJVs dress and goes off."] 

Sarah. — That girl grows more careless and provoking 
every day. I almost despair of ever making anj^ im- 
pression upon so vain and trifling a nature. 

Mary. — Really it grieves me, Sarah, to hear you speak 
so unsparingly of your sister's faults. The truly gen- 
erous mind can not blit look with compassion upon those 
to whom nature has given inferior endowments to its 
own. When I hear persons arrogate to themselves vir- 
tues, which they blame others for not possessing, I can 
not but remember the injunction of St. Paul, " Let him 
that thinketh he stand eth, take heed lest he fall." 

[A bell sounds, and they both go off."] 

Scene 2. — Recitation hall. Mr. Grabster — old gentleman, 
with sharp nose and spectacles. Sarah and Mary 
with the other girls of their class. 

Mr. Crabster. — Step to the blackboard in order. 
[Beads an example ; each one performs it, and returns 
to her seat.'] Take the pointer, Sarah, and explain the 
example. 

[Sarah advances with great dignity, amid the sup- 
pressed giggling of the class.] 

Mr. Grabster. — Silence ! Miss Sarah, before you 
proceed any further, please to remove that string from 
your dress. 

Sarah [storing at him. blankly and turning red]. — 
There's no string to my dress, Mr. Crabster. 

Mr. Crabster. — Yes, but there is 

Sarah [very indignant]. — There isn't; I don't wear 
strings to my clothes. 

Mr. Crabster. — Leave the hall immediately,, and go 
to your room, miss, and remain there until I give you 
permission to leave it. 

[Curtain falls.] 



SCHOULDAY DIALOGUES. 259 

Scene 3. — 3Ir. Crabster, at his desk alone, busily writing. 

Nellie enters, and approaches him looking very con- 
fused and ashamed. 

Mr. Crabster [_griiffly2- — Well, what do you want ? 

Nellie. — To go to Sarah's room in her place, for [ 
was the one in fault. I pinned the ribbon to her dress f 
I only did it to tease her. I did not think of her weal- 
ing it to the hall. Please let me be punished ! 

Mr. Crabster presuming his tvriting']. — I'll do no 
such thing. I did not punish her for wearing the string, 
but for contradicting me, and speaking so unlady-like 
as she did. 

Nellie. — But she did not know the ribbon was there ; 
and any thing slovenl}^ about her dress always makes 
her so angry. And now you see that I am the one who 
deserves to be punished, and will let me go be a 
prisoner, and release Sarah. 

Mr. Crabster [^meditatively']. — In consideration of 
the extraordinary features of the case, I suppose 
that I will have to pardon you both, for this time, if 
Miss Sarah will make a suitable apology for her rude 
behavior, and you promise to give up your mischievous 
pranks for the future, and attend more closely to your 
studies. [Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 4. — Sarah and Mary in the latter^s room. 

Mary. — Sarah, you must not say you will never for- 
give her, it is both childish and wicked. If you were 
trul}^ grieved to see these faults in your 3^oung sister. 
as you say you are, you should be willing to use every 
means in j^our power to correct them. If I must speak 
with the candor of a true friend, I think you generally 
take the w^ay least calculated to effect a reformation in 
Nellie's character, and often succeed in placing your- 
self as much in fault as she. If 3^ou would only learn 
to control your temper, and meet her livel}^ sallies iu 
the spirit of banter, in which they are given, it would 
be half the battle. In the present instance, if 3'-ou had 
not lost your good humor the moment Mr. Crabster 
spoke to you about the ribbon, the whole affair might 
have passed off without occasioning any annoj-ance to 
any on<^. 



260 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



, GRUMBLING OYER LESSONS. 

CHARACTEES. 

Olive, a large girl. Alma, same size. 

Sarah. CATtuiR. Mary, Salome. Maggie. 

Charlie, a niiscliievous boy, who can whistle Dixie. 



Scene. — The girls stand in groups, playing, and eating 
dinner, as it is noon-time. 

Olive. — Now, girls, the teacher has gone after her 
dinner, the boys are at play, so let us have a good time 
studying our lessons. 

Carrie. — Yes. Hurrah! let's get our books and stud3\ 
[^Tliey run and procure them, and study for a minute.'] 
I do think [pouting'] the teacher is real mean not to let 
us whisper, or hardly move in school ; now, when we 
study, we can stand up or walk around, and learn ever 
so much better. Can't we, Mary ? 

Mary. — Yes, that we can. / think she's mean, too. 

Sarah. — So do I. 

Salome. — And I, too. 

Olive. — Now, girls, stop talking so. You know we 
couldn't study a bit well if it was nois3^ 

MAaGiE. — That's true. Girls, keep still. How can I 
study now ? [ They keep quiet until Maggie exclaims] 
' — Oh, dear ! I never can get this lesson in spelling 1 
How hard it is ! I can never remember these definitions. 
And what good will they ever do ? There ! — [Ihroiving 
the speller on the desk] — I'll give it up — can't learn it. 

Olive. — Remember the motto, Maggie, "I'll try." 

Maggie. — Well, 1 will try a little. [Reluctantly takes 
up her book and studies aloud.] M-o-r-t-a-r, a short piece 
of ordnance used for throwing shells. C-a-r-b-i-n-e, a 
short gun, borne by light horsemen, carried over the 
left shoulder, and has a ball weighing twenty-four 
pounds. 

Olive. — Why, Maggie ! you had better think. It 
must be a large gun to cany a ball weighing twenty- 
four pounds. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 2CA 

Maggie. — Well, it says something about twentj^-four 
pounds. 

Olive. — It says twentj^-four balls weigh one pound. 

Maggie. — Well, that's a sad mistake. I'm most dis- 
couraged. 

Sarah. — That is as bad a mistake as our class in 
geography made the other day. We were going by 
water from Cleveland to Quebec, and going, too, right 
down the Niagara river over the Falls, forgetting all 
about Welland Canal. Teacher says we must learn to 
think, and that is so hard ; isn't it, Maggie ? 

Maggie.—Ycs, indeed it is. 

Olive. — But if yon do not learn to think, you will 
not make much of a scholar. 

Alma [who stands at the blackboard with chalk in 
hand']. — Well, I never can write this sentence, if I 
think a week. A sentence whose principal parts are 
each limited by a word, phrase, and sentence. [Sits 
down for awhile in despair, then arises and goes to ivork.'] 

Sarah [luith a frown, scribbling on slate]. — What a 
hard arithmetic lesson ! To write a rule of our own for 
long division. I never can do it without 

Olive. — Without thinking, Sarah. JST o, of course you 
can't. 

Sarah [contemptuously]. — Oh, Miss Preacher, I didn't 
mean that. I meant without looking in my book. 

Olive. — Oh, girls, you ought not to grumble ! Our 
teacher gives j^ou lessons which will teach you to think 
for yourselves. You must not be dependent on others, 
but learn to depend on your own energies. " Good 
scholars must be thorough in every thing." That is a 
good text. 

Alma [half laughing]. — And you are as good as a 
preacher. Say, Olive, how much salary would you ask 
to give us a sermon like the one just delivered, every 
noon until close of term ? [Sarcastically.] No doubt 
we would daily grow wiser and better. 

Carrie. — Now stop, Alma, 3^ou are nsing the lan- 
guage of irony too much. 

Olive. — Well, girls, I think you are most too bad 
You know I say the truth, and sometime you will be 
sorry When you grow old 



262 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Sarah. — As old as the reverend Olive ! Girls let us 
count the gray hairs [touching Olivers locks\ on her ven- 
erable head. [All laugh.'] 

Salome [crossly']. — I never in the world can make 
seiitences which contain these words — discouraged, ven- 
erably, and contented. 

Alma [going to her and taking speller]. — Yes you 
can. Say Alma is discouraged about learning to write 
sentences, Olive's grave words sound venerably, and she 
is contented to lecture ugly girls, and so on. 

Mary [throwing down geography]. — Come, girls, let 
us go and play. 

Carrie. — Oh, no ! not yet. We couldn't get to the 
door before Olive, the preacher, would say. Girls remem- 
ber what the teacher sa^^s — "Lessons first, play af- 
terwards ;" and then we would be conscience smitten. 
[They all study, till Mary, with a sour face, exclaims] 
— Oh, what a hard geography lesson! How to go }jy 
water from Grand Rapids to Buffalo. I shall sink 
before I get there ! Dear me ! 

Carrie [cyphering]. — I never can perform this ex- 
ample ! 

Olive [cheerfully]. — Find a way, or make a way, 
Carrie. 

Alma. — Well, Olive, I've got a kind of a sentence. 
It's the best I can do. I wouldn't have tried, if I had 
not been anxious to be benefited by your sober sermon. 

Olive. — I'm glad it has done some good. If you 
have done the best you can, you have " done well — acted 
nobly ! Angels do no more !" 

Charlie [coming in whistling]. — Why, girls, what 
are you doing now ! 

Girls [all together, pushing and striking him]. — Go 
away 1 Stop bothering 1 You're always teasing I We are 
studying. 

Charlie [looking surprised, and giving a long whis- 
tle]. — Studying! nonsense! studying I You look cross 
as bears ! You never can learn with sucli sour faces ! 

Olive. — The}' are complaining, and pouting, and 
grumbling over hard lessons. 

Charlie. — Now, girls I I'd be ashamed I To spoil 
such a nice j daytime by acting so ! Come, let us sing " I 



^ 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 263 

wish I had my lesson," and then go and play awhile; 
and when school calls, if you stop looking cross, and 
study hard, the wish wdll surely come to pass. 

Sarah. — Yes ; the singing comes next in order after 
sermon. Olive, say the congregation will sing hymn 
on lT3d page, common, particular, lengthy, short metre. 
Olive. — Now behave, Sarah, or I will not help 3'ou. 
Sarah. — Well, I suppose I must mind, but it's tough. 
Olive, 3"0U commence, and I'll lengthen my face and 
sing with all the strength of my powerful lungs. 

\_They all sing "/ wish I had my lesson, ^^ tunej 
" Dixie. ''^ Charlie whistles. All go off with life 
and energy. 2 

I'm glad I live in the land of learning, 
Wisdom's heights I'm just discerning, 

Far away, far away, away, far away. 
Although sometimes I'm sad and weary, 
And the way looks dark and dreary. 
I'll away, I'll away, away, I'll away. 
Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, 
I do, I do ; 
In learning I will end my days. 
And live and die in wisdom's ways. 

I'll try, I'll try, 
I'll try to learn mv lesson ; 

I'll try, I'll try; 
I'll try to learn my lesson. 

Sarah. — Sometimes, when I have hard lessons, I'm 
almost sorry I live in the land of learning. It will be 
a long time before I can ever discern wisdom's heights. 

Too many children fret and worr^^. 
Because the^?^ can't learn in a hurry, 

Eight away, right away, away, right away. 
But as for me, as I grow^ stronger, 
I will strive to study longer. 
Work away, work away, away, work away. 
Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, <Src. 
Charlie. — Yes, too many children have been fretting 
and worrying this noon, I should judge. 

Alma. — Now, Charlie, stop teasing; we've reformed. 
Don't 3-0U ever fret and worr^^ ? 

Charlie. — Well, yes, sometimes ; but I don't often 
draw m3' face so prodigiously long. 



264 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Sometimes I think of the sunny hours, 
The golden bees and pretty flowers, 

Far away, far away, away, far away. 
But then I know when school is over, 
I can run in the fields of clover, 

Skip away, skip away, away, skip away. 
Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, &c. 

Mary. — Well, I wish school was over now. I long to 
ho out in the woods and among the flowers, witl books, 
lessons, and teacher out of sight and hearing. 

I love my school next to my mother, 
Next to father, sister, brother, 

Work away, work away, away, work a"vv«y. 
While I'm young- and while I'm ruddy. 
I will work and I will study. 
Work away, work away, away, work away. 
Chorus. — Oh ! I know I'll learn my lesson, &c. 
Carrie. — I love my school pretty well, but I love 
play and fun next to my mother, " next to father, sister, 
brother." And now hurrah! let's leave our books and 
have a grand, good time before the bell rings. [_They 
exit with shouts and laughter. 2 



BEHIND THE SCENES. 

CHARACTERS. 

Maria, ) Three girls, who remain 
Kate, I after school to study 

Nellie. their lessons. 



Scene. — Chairs or benches to represent school-room. 
Desks. Cloaks hanging up. Curtain rises. 

Nellie.^ — There I I have finished my algebra lesson 
at last. Oh ! how tiresome it is to study so much! I 
wish I was a queen, then I should never have to go to 
school. 

Kate. — But you would, when you were a princess, 
and have far more to study ; and you know " There is 
no royal road to learnrng." So you must make a better 
'^ish than ^^hat. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 265 

Nellie. — Then I will wish my studies were over. My 
heart seems to be full of bees. Philosophy buzzes in 
it, and grammar buzzes, and algebra buzzes, till I am 
almost distracted. 1 shall be glad when my studies arc 
done. 

Kate — What a hive of learning and sweetness it 
must be! But, Nellie, dear, do you remember what our 
teacher told us the other da}'^, that our studies would 
not be ended while we lived ; we must always be learn- 
ino; somethino; new, 

Maria, — Congratulate me, girls ! I have committed 
to memory a difficult history lesson, and can say it 
perfectly — now listen : " The victorious general" 

Nellie [^interrupting']. — Oh ! don't, Maria ! We have 
enough of that through study hours. Let us talk of 
something not quite so learned, and more interesting, 

Kate. — My party, for instance. You know, girls, 
my birthday comes next week, and I have been promised 
a birthday party. Mamma is to manage it all. There 
will be dancing, and refreshment, just like a grown up 
party, and I am to have a new white dress with eight 
tucks, I am so glad we staid this afternoon, because 
we can arrange whom to invite. Of course, you two, 
Nellie -and Maria, and the Smiths and Browns will 
come. I shall have to leave some out. I must con- 
sider whom. 

Nellie. — Be sure and invite Minerva Barry; you 
know her father has ''struck ile" [mimicking], and made 
his everlastin' forchune. She will be likely to wear her 
flame color silk that cost " a heap of money," 

Kate, — Now, Nellie, you are too bad. If you had 
been brought up with such disadvantages as Minerva 
has, you would be awkward and ignorant, too. 

Nellie. — Then I should have staid in the backwoods, 
where I belonged. Why, she brings bread and ham to 
school to eat in the classes, and says she likes it ''power 
fully," "You needn't mind any thing I dew," she said 
to Miss Horton, "my pa's rich, he's struck ile," 

Kate. — Poor thing! if an^^ one would be kind enough 
to tell her how frightful she looks in those rich silks 
she wears to school, and how much more becoming a 



266 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUE."^. 

neat gingham would be, it would be doing her a real 
service. 

Maria. — Let her wear what she likes, girls, but for 
pity's sake don't invite her to youv party, Kate. Why, 
she would eat ice-cream M^th a fork, and cold turkey 
with her fingers, and she would wear the flame color 
silk with yellow bows ; and then just imagine her telling 
ever}^ one in the room, " My pa's rich, he's struck ile" 
[^drawling^. 

Nellie. — Or playing Yankee Doodle with one hand, 
on the piano, to show off her accomplishments. 

Kate. — Girls, you are too bad. Nothing is ever 
accomplished by ridicule. It is the weapon of weak 
minds. I think something may yet be made of Minerva, 
for she has a good heart. 

A Voice. — Thank 3^ou, Kate. 

[ The girls look up in asf4)nis'h'ment and see Minerva 
just stepping from beJmid a cloak that was hung up."] 

Nellie ^scornfully']. — Listeners never hear any good 
of themselves. 

Minerva [^angrily]. — I wasn't listening, I just went in 
behind there to frighten you ; I didn't think you were 
mean enough to talk about a schoolmate behind her 
back, that way. I — I wont like you ever again, nor 
speak to you either, except Kate. 

Nellie [aside']. — Oh, don't we feel hurt I aint it 
dreadful ! and our pa's aint rich, and haven't struck 
ile. [Aloud.] Oh, Minerva I forgive us ! we didn't 
mean any thing bad — girls always talk about each 
other. 

Minerva. — Oh, I don't mind if you are sorry for it. 
I suppose I can afford to forgive you. My pa's rich — 
but I like Kate the best, after all. [Exit Minerva.] 

Maria. — What a muss we have got into. Who would 
have thought there was any one listening ? 

Kate [gravely]. — There is always One listening to 
our idle words ; so we should be careful, girls, and not 
go too far in talking nonsense. But now about the 
party. Of course, we must have our usher, Mr. Jacobs, 
to make fun for the children ; he knows so many games, 
Hud tells such funny stories. 

Nellie. — But suppose he should forget, and cry, 



SCITOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 267 

"First class in geo-o-grapby, this way," or "boys! 
boys! girls! girls ! less noise ! wouldn't it sound fanny"? 

Maria. — And he is so absent-minded ; he will take 
snuff all the time, and 

A Voice. — Stop, girls, till I get out of this ! 

Mr. Jacobs, a little old man, with spectacles on and 
a pen in his hand, steps from behind a. desk.'] 

Mr. Jacobs [m a most comical tone]. — "My pa's rich, 
he's struck ile !" 

Girls [altogether]. — Oh ! Mr. Jacobs ! 

Kate. — Did j^ou hear all our foolish talk? We thought 
you had gone home. 

Mr. Jacobs. — 1 am afraid, my dear children, you 
struck deeper than "ile." Poor Minerva must feel 
both angry and ashamed. Let me suggest that here- 
after you imagine a listener near, and always temper 
justice with merc}^ when speaking of the defects of 
another. There is a very beautiful little verse I would 
like you to commit to memory. I think, Kate, you 
know it already. Let me repeat it, after which we will 
go home. 

" Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the faults I see ; 

That mercy I to others show, 

1'hat mercy show to me." 

[ Curtain falls.] 



THE TEST. 

CHAKACTERS. 

Mr. Wallace. Mrs. Watson. 

Tom Wallace. John Watson. 



Scene 1. — A room. Mrs. Watson and John Watson 
discovered. 

Mrs. Watson. — Ah, it is very hard to live in this 
way after having been reared in a palace of luxury. 
Every thing is gone from me now, but you, my son. 
The house has been sMd, and we have scarcely enough 



268 scHoor.DAY dialogues. 

to keep us alive for a few short weeks, while T have 
such poor health that I am scarceh' able to move about. 

John. — Do not despond, dear mother. I will soon 
find something to do, and then we will get along nicely. 
I can make money enough to keep us alive, but I do 
feel sorr}^ that I must give up going to school. I had 
become very much interested in that arithmetic that 
used to seem so dry, and I was getting along finel_y. 

Mrs. W. — I did not like to have you leave school 
just now when 3'ou so much need schooling, but grim 
jjovert}^ is looking us in the face and we must endeavor 
in some way to keep ourselves alive. If I were only 
able I could make something, but as it is I can do noth- 
ing. I am only a w^eight on 3^our hands. 

John. — You must not talk so, mother. I shall feel 
ver^^ much displeased if yow do. You are no weight on 
my hands. What would I have been without you? 
But I must get my cap and see if I can not find a situa- 
tion. We have a little money yet^ you know, and I 
think it will last until I find something to do. 

\_Going, meets Tom Wallace.'] 

Tom. — Hallo, John ! where away so fast ? You seem 
to be in a great hurry. 

John. — I'm just going out to see if I can't find a situa- 
tion. You know since our recent misfortunes we are in 
rather straitened circumstances, and I Avant to see if 
I can't find something to do. But come in and sit down. 
I'll not go out now. 

Tom [to Mrs. Watson]. — Good-morning, Mrs. Wat- 
son. I hope you are better this morning. 

Mrs. W. — Not much, my young friend. I am very 
weak, and the troubles that have come upon us seem 
rather to have made me worse. 

Tom. — John has said that he was about to go out to 
seek a situation. I have just come in in the nick of 
time. Father wants a boy, and he told me to speak to 
John the first time I should meet him and ask him if he 
would accept a situation in his store. I thought I would 
no*^. wait until I would meet him on the street, but ran 
over here immediately. If you feel like going, John, he 
will be glad to have you. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 269 

. John. — I will go, gladly. I had a great deal rather 
work for a man I knew than for a stranger. 

Mrs. T7. — I am very glad that you have obtained a 
situation for John. I know it is a very difficult matter 
at present to find employment of any kind, and I feel 
truly grateful to both you and your father for what you 
have done. , 

Tom. — No thanks, Mrs. Watson. Father was in need 
of a boy, and as he knew John to be sober and industri- 
ous and supposing he would be anxious for stead}" em- 
plo3'ment, he decided to ask him to come. You will 
come to-morrow morning? 

John. — Yes ; I will be on hand early. 

Tom. — All right. Good-morning. 

Mrs. W. and John. — Good-morning. 
[^Curtain falls]. 

Scene 2. — M7\ Wallace^s store. John Watson and Tom 
Wallace discovered. 

Tom. — Come now, John ; don't be so puritanical in 
your notions. Here is some tip-top wine, l.got it 
down at Harlan's, and I know you will like it. Take a 
drop, do ! 

John, — Indeed, Tom, I will not. I know something 
of the evils of intemperance and I am fully determined 
that I will never drink intoxicating liquor of any kind 

Tom. — John, don't be a fool. There is a wide differ- 
ence between being a drunkard and taking a glass of 
wine occasionally. 

John. — Not a very wide diflerence, I assure you. 
Can you point to a single drunkard who didn't com- 
mence his downward course by drinking a little " pru- 
dently," " temperately," as it is sometimes called ? 
Point me to a single instance, will you ? 

Tom. — I don't know that I can, but I can point you 
to a great many who have been drinking temperately 
for a long time and yet there is no prospect of their be- 
coming drunkards. 

John. — I have no doubt there are some temperate 
drinkers who will not become drunkards, but they are 
few. The greater part of them Avill fill drunkards' 
graves. 



270 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Tom. — Well, this wine will not hurt you, but on the 
contrary it will make you feel like a new man. Come 
now, take a drop, and don't be a goose. 

John. — Indeed I will not. You have my answer. 
But, Tom, I am surprised to see you have a bottle of 
wine with you. I thought you were strictl}^ temperate. 

Tom. — There's no use in a fellow being so awful strict. 
I think I can take a little pull occasionally and yet not 
be a drunkard. I was at Alice Craig's birthday party 
last week, and when we were all about to pledge the 
fair Alice in a glass of wine, one of 3'our strictly tem- 
perate fellows refused to drink. He said he would 
drink her health in a glass of water, but he had given 
his mother a promise that he would never dri-nk wine, 
nor any other kind of intoxicating liquor, and he meant 
to keep that promise. Of course all the boys laughed 
at him, and Alice herself looked very much displeased 
but said nothing. Now, how would 3^ou have done if 
you had been in that fellow's place ? You certainly 
would not have refused to drink on an occasion of that 
kind. 

John. — Yes ; I would have refused. I would have 
done just exactly the same as that young man did, even 
if every person in the room liad laughed at me, and if 
I had been turned out of doors by the young lady's 
father. I tell you, Tom, I have seen enough of the evils 
of intemperance to make me bitter in my denunciations 
of the wine cup. I hav.e seen the promising j'-outh — the 
pride of the father and the delight of the mother — in a 
few short years become a driveling sot. I have seen 
the father, who should have been looked up to for coun- 
sel and. advice, go staggering to his home, there to meet 
a number of starving, frightened children, and a heart- 
broken wife. I am young yet, but I have seen enough 
to make me detest the wine-cup ; and I have determined 
that, by the help of God, I wiW^iever let one drop of in- 
toxicating liquor pass my lips. 

Tom. — 1 declare, John, you have turned temperance 
lecturer. Well, I can't stand this speechifying, so I'll 
go out. [Exit Tom.2 

John. — I am really surprised to see Tom with a bot- 
tlr, I supposed that he hated intoxicating liquors as 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 271 

mucli as I do. His father doesn't know of it or there 
would be a rumpus. I sincerely hope he may not be 
led away. I intend to talk to him again, but 1 must be 
careful how I talk, for if I offend him he may persuade 
his father to discharge me. [Sees note on the floor.'] 
Hallo ! what's this ? \_Pickii it up.'] A twenty dollar 
note, as sure as I'm alive ! I wonder who could have 
dropped it. Probably some one who was in the store 
this evening. Oh, won't that buy lots of nice things 
for m}' poor sick mother ? Aint I glad that I found it 
instead of Tom ? It is a wonder he didn't see it. Let 
me see — what will I buy ? First, we must have sotne 
coal, for our stock is getting low ; and then we will have 
a nice turkey for Thanksgiving, and mother shall have 
a new shawl and — \_pauses a few moments.] I don't be- 
lieve I ought to keep this money; It isn't mine if I did 
find it. It would buy some things we need very much, 
but it isn't mine, and I must not keep it. Oh, I wish 
I was rich ! It would be so much easier to do right if 
I was rich. Well, I'll not keep the money — thafa 
settled ! I'll do as near right as I know how even if we 
are poor and have hard getting along. It is settled. 
I'll hand the money to Mr. Wallace and he can find out 
who lost it and return it to the rightful owner, 

[_Enter JTr. Wallace.] 

Mr. Wallace. — Well, John ; did 3'ou take that pack- 
age down to Marshal's ? 

John. — Yes, sir. Here's a twenty dollar note I found 
here on the floor a few minutes ago. I suppose it was 
dropped hj some of the customers this evening. You 
can find out the owner, if 3-ou please, sir, and hand it 
back. 

Mr. W. — And why not keep the note, John ? It 
isn't probable the owner can be found. 

John. — But the money isn't mine, and I will not 
keep it. I was tempted to keep it when I found it, and 
thought how many nice tilings it would buvfor my poor 
mother; but right triumphed over wrong and I deter- 
mhied that I would not keep it. 

]\[r. W. — I will tell you all. I was just outside and 
h'>ard all your soliloquy and your conversatiou with 



272 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Tom. It was all a little plan to test you. Tom does 
not drink but, at m}^ request, he tried to induce 3^ou to 
join him in a glass of wine. I am proud to sa^^ that he 
is the strictly temperate fellow he spoke of who would 
not pledge Alice Craig in a glass of wine. Whilst you 
were talking he dropped the note to give you another 
test. It was rather severe, but you have stood it man- 
fully and henceforth you shall have a permanent situa- 
tion in my store, and your mother shall want for noth- 
ing. As an earnest of what I intend to do, I present 
3^ou with the twenty dollar note. Take it and buy what- 
evfir you need, and remember that as long as you are 
as honest as you have proved yourself this evening, and 
that as long as you are as strictly temperate and as 
good a temperance lecturer as you have proved yourself 
this evening, 3^ou will always find a friend in me. 

John. — Oh, sir; how can I ever thank you for your 
kindness? \_G ur tain falls. ~\ 



THANKSGIYING. 

CHARACTERS. 
Henry Wentworth. Robert Allen. Emily Melville. 



Scene. — A room in Mrs. Melmlle^s house. Mr. Went- 
worth discovered. 

Mil, Wentworth. — Well, here I am, ei,sconced in my 
new boarding-place, and a snug little place it is, but the 
villagers seem most awful slow. I really don't know 
what is to become of me. It is about thirty 3'ear.s since 
I found myself a rich man, and since that time I have 
l)een a miserable dog. I've traveled all over Europe, 
and still I am not satisfied with mj^self, nor satisfied 
with any body else. I didn't like Russia ; it was far too 
cold, and Italy was far too liot. Holland was inexpress- 
ibly dull, and France was inexpressibly gay. Nothing 
pleases me. I am all out of sorts. 'Tis a great pity 
thatJ I am ^'ot still [)oor. It was an unlucky day for me 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 278 

when I became possessor of 1113" immense fortitae. Well, 
I find myself now in a snng little house, and I think I'll 
stay a few weeks. It must be very lonel}^ for the lady 
and her daughter to live here all alone. The}' seem to be 
only in tolerable circumstances, and I think I'll lielp 
them along a little, if I can find a way of doing it -with- 
out ofi'ending them. To-morrow is Thanksgiving, and 
from the way the pretty little Emily is flying round, we 
may expect a sumptuous dinner of turkey, pumpkin- 
pies, etc. She's a famous little cook. I'll wager she 
can't be beaten in the State. Well, here's the morning 
paper — the Star. It's a stupid old thing, but 111 look 
it over, and take a smoke, on the porch. [^Retires.'] 
\_Enter Emily.'] 

Emily. — Mr. Went worth is gone out, and I'll brush 
things up a little. [^Proceeds to arrange furniture, etc.'] 
He's a nice old gentleman, but a little crusty sometimes. 
Well, while he boards with us, we will endeavor to make 
him feel happy and contented. They say that riches 
make a man happy, but I don't believe it. Mr. Went- 
worth is reputed a very wealthy man, and he doesn't 
seem to be the least bit happy. [_HumH a tune as i>he pro- 
ceeds with her work: knock at the door; opened hy 
Emily.] 

\_Enter Bohert.] 
Good morning, Robert. What's the matter, that you 
are out so early this morning ? 

Robert. — I came over to see if you wanted Mr. 
Gray's pony, to ride to church to-morrow. ♦I can get 
him for 3'ou. 

Emily. — Oh, no, Robert! I'll walk. Our old bachelor 
boarder is going to church, and we'll all w^alk together. 
You must remember what I told 3'ou last Monda}', and 
come here for dinner. We will have a nice time. Ai-n't 
3'ou glad, Robert, when Thank^iving comes around ? ' 

Robert. — I can't say 1 am. Emil}', I have been won- 
dering what we have to be thankful for. What's the 
use of pretending to be thankful when 3"ou don't feel so ? 

Emily.— Oh, Robert! 

Robert. — I'm in earnest. Just look at it in every 
light, and tell me whv we should be thankful. Is there 
an^' thing we ought to be particularly' thankful for ? 
18 



274 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Emily. — Ob, yes, Robert ! We ought to be thankful 
for the sunshine and the rain. We ought to be thankful 
for the bread we eat, and for the many blessings that 
surround our daily life. 

Robert. — Yes, I know; but I am not thinking of 
these common-place affairs. Emily, you know we are 
both poor. I am totally without emploj^ment, although 
I have been seeking in the city for something to do for 
the last three weeks. While this lasts 3^ou know we 
can not be married. I would be willing to work, and 
work hard, from daylight to dark, that I might earn 
something, and that I might be enabled to lay some- 
thing by, and be able to look forward to the bright day 
when I could claim you as my own. 

Emily [^coming to his side, and lookingup in his face.'] — 
Dear Robert, don't be disheartened. A brighter and a 
happier day will dawn. We will yet be happy. Let us 
put our trust in God, and all will be well. He will pro- 
vide for us if we will implicitly rely on Him, and bide 
his own good time. 

Robert. — I believe — I — I know I have been talking 
like a great blockhead, but I can't help feeling discour- 
aged and disheartened. It seems hard that we must 
wear out our lives in this endless waiting. Our best 
dajT^s are passing away, and we are becoming poorer and 
poorer. Oh ! will there never be any change ? Must we 
still drag along in this wretched, miserable waj-- ? 

Emily. — Robert, do not talk in this way. If we but 
trust in G©d, all will yet be well. \_A noise is heard as 
of a chair being moved.'] 

Robert. — What's that ? 

Emily. — Oh, my ! The window is open, and perhaps 
Mr. Wentworth is on the porch. What if he has heard 
our conversation ? 

Robert. — I hope he hasn't. Let us get out of this 
anyhow. [^Exeunt to kitchen.] 

[Enter Mr. Wentworth.] 

Mr. Wentworth. — Well, I must confess I have a sort 
of a hang-dog feeling just now. I didn't want to h ar 
what the two young folks were talking about, but I 
couldn't get up and leave without disturbing them, and, 
to tell the truth, I couldn't help listening. [ think, 



SCITOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 275 

however, tliey will forgive me for eavesdropping; for I 
will put them on a plan whereby thej^ can get married 
right off; and then that _yonng fellow will stop his whin- 
ing. Poor fellow, I pity him ! I know it is a dreadful 
thing to be in love, and not have enough of the filthy 
lucre to enable you to step into matrimon}^ I can sym- 
pathize with the young dog, for I was once in the same 
iigl^^ predicament. Ah ! that vision of sunny curls and 
soft brown eyes haunts me still, but, unfortunately, the 
possessor of the sunny curls and soft brown eyes hadn't 
the true heart that my little hostess has. But enough 
I will not think of the past. I'll make these two 3^oung 
lovers happ3^ and then Til run off. I couldn't stay and. 
hear the thousands of thanks they would rain on me. 
Indeed I couldn't! I'll be sorry to lose the Thanksgiv- 
ing dinner, too. The pumpkin-pies will be superb, and 
the turkey will be done to a turn. \^Takes out pocket^ 
hook.'] Here's a check for three thousand. That will 
give them a start in the world. Now I'll pencil a little 
note to Emily, and be off. \_Writes and encloses the 
check.'] Now, my hat. Thank fortune I 've no baggage. 
[_Goes to door leading to porch. Calls back.] Emily! 
I mean Miss Mellville ! \_Einily appears.] I'm off 
now. 

Emily. — Wh}^ Mr. Wentworth, wdiat's the matter ? 
Why are you going to leaA^e so soon ? 

Mr. Went^vorth. — Oh! I've suddenly taken a notion 
to go back to the city. I'm restless, you know; can't 
stay long in one place. There's a note on the table for 
you, explaining my sudden departure, and containing 
money enough to pay ni}^ board bill. I'll come back and 
see you someday. Good-b}' ! \_Exit Mr. Wentworth.] 

Emily. — Well, I declare; this is funny. What a 
strange kind of a man ! I believe he doesn't know one 
minute what he'll do the next. I will read his note. 
[^Opens and reads.] Robert, Robert, come here ! [_En- 
ter Bobert.] Would you believe it ! That strange old 
gentleman has run off, and lei't me three thousand 
dollars. 

Robert. — What ! 

Emily. — Three thousand dollars ! just think of it I 



276 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

And he says I must marrj^ you immediately ; but here's 
the letter ; read for yourself. 

Robert [takes the letter and reads aloud']. — " M}^ little 
friend Emily: I unintentionally overheard your conver- 
sation a few minutes ago. Here's a check for three 
thousand dollars. Take it, marry the young man im- 
mediately, and be happy. I have piles of monej', and 
the only good it does me is to give it away to deserving 
persons. It makes a man feel good to do a benevolent 
action. Take the money, and don't forget your old 
friend Wentworth." Three thousand dollars ! Well, 
I'm astonished! What did he run away for? 

Emily. — I don't know, unless it was l3ecause he didn't 
want to hear us thank him for his kindness. I am real 
sorry he is gone. 

Robert. — And you will accept the present ? 

Emily. — Certainly, Robert. We are rich people now, 
and when Mr. Wentworth comes back, wont we over- 
power him with our thanks? Oh, what a kind-hearted 
man he is ! But 3'oa will now keep Thanksgiving from 
your heart, will you not, Robert ? 

Robert. — I will. 

Emily. — And should sorrows surround us, and the 
dark clouds lower over our pathway, you will still trust 
in the Great Benefactor. 

\\0 ^i rt [reverently.'] — The Lord helping me, I will. 
[Curtain falls.] 



THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT. 

CHARACTERS 
Mary Cole. Grandmother Cole, who is very deaf. 

Jack Cole, Aunt Martha Gordon. Cyrus Gordon. 



Scene 1. — The sitting-room of the Cole family. Mary 

reading a newspaper. Grandmother Cole knitting. 

Aunt Martha crochetting. Jack playing with the balls 

in Aunt Martha^ s loork-hasket. 

Mary Cole. — Oh, Aunt Martha ! only hear this ! it's 
in the Chronicle. What a splendid chance I I declare, 
I've a great mind to answer it myself I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 277 

Aunt M. — What have you got hold of no^ ? You're 
allez a-making some powerful diskivery somewheres 
What now? Something to turn gray eyes black, and 
blue e^^es gra.y ? 

Mary. — No ; it's a matrimonial advertisement. What 
a splendid fellow this " C. Gr." must be ! 

Aunt M. — Oh, shaw ! A body must be dreadfulty put 
to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. 
Thank goodness ! I never got in such a strait as that 
'ere. The Lord has marcyfuUy kept me thus fur from 
having any dealings with the male sect, and I trust I 
shall be presarved to the end. 

Jack Cole. — Didn't you ever have an offer, Aunt 
Mattie ? 

Aunt M. [indignantly']. — Why, Jack Cole ! What an 
idee! I've had more chances to change m}^ condition 
than you're got fingers and toes. But I refused 'em all. 
A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did 
kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks 
adrift — they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. 
He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come 
over to our 'ouse, and I give him to understand that he 
needn't trouble hisself ; and he felt so mad that he went 
rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month 
was out. 

Jack. — Poor fellow ! Hoav he must have felt ! And 
Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at 
you a great deal in meeting, since you've got that pniK 
feather on your bonnet. What if he should want you to 
be a mother to his ten little ones ? 

Aunt M. [smpe?'m</]. — Law, Jack Cole! What a 
dreadful boy yow be ! [Finches his ear.] The deacon 
never thought of such a thing ! But if it should please 
Providence to appoint to me such a fate, I should try 
and be resigned. 

Granny Cole. — Kesio-ned ! Who's resio^ned ? Not 
the President, has he? Well, I don't blame him. I'd 
resign, too, if I was into his place. Nothing spiles a 
man's character so quick as being President or Congress. 
Yer gran'father got in justice of the peace and chorus, 
once, and he resigned afore he was elected. Sed he 
didn't want his repetition srnled. 



278 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Jack. — Three cheers for Gran 'father Cole 1 

Granny C. — Cheers? What's the matter with the 
cheers now ? Yer father had them bottomed last year, 
and this year they were new painted. What's to pay 
with 'em now ? 

Mary [impatiently']. — Do listen, all of you, to thi? 
advertisement. 

Aunt M. — Mary Cole, I'm sorry your head is so 
turned with the vanities of this world. Advertising for 
a pardner in that way is wicked. I hadn't orter listen 
to it. 

Mary. — Oh, it wont hurt you a bit, auntie. [Read^.'] 
"A gentleman of about forty, A'ery fine looking; tall, 
slender, and fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and 
side whiskers, and some property, wishes to make the 
acquaintance of a young lady with similar qualifica- 
tions 

Jack. — A young lady with expressive eyes and side 
whiskers 

Mary. — Do keep quiet. Jack Cole ! \_Beads.'] '' With 
similar qualifications as to good looks and amiable 
temper, with a view to matrimony. Address, with stamp 
to pay return postage — C. G., Scruhtown ; stating when 
and where an interview may be had." There I what do 
you think of that ? 

Jack. — Deacon Goodrich to a T. " C. G." stands for 
Calvin Goodrich, 

Aunt M. — The land of goodness ! Deacon Goodrich, 
indeed ! a pillar of the church 1 advertising for a wife ! 
No, no. Jack ; it can't be him 1 He'd never stoop so low I 

Jack. — But if all the women are as hard-hearted as 
you are, and the poor man needs a wife. Think of his 
ten little olive plants ! 

Granny C. — Plants? Cabbage plants ? 'Taint time 
to set them out yet. Fust of August is plenty airly enuflf 
to set 'em for winter. Cabbages never begin to head 
till the nights come cold. 

Jack. — Poor Mr. C. G I Why don't you answer it, 
Aunt Mattie ; and tell him you'll darn his stockings for 
bim, and comb that foir hair of his? 

Aunt M. — Jack Cole ! if you don't hold your tongue, 
I'll comb youi- hair for you in away you wont like. Me 



SCHOOI.DAY DIALOGUES. 279 

answering one of them low aclvertisements ! Me, indeed! 
I haint so eager to get married as some folks I know. 
Brother Cj^rus and I have lived all our lives in maiden 
meditation, fancy free — the only sensible ones of the 
family of twelve children ; and it's my idee that we shall 
continner on in that way. 

Maky. — Why, don't you believe that Uncle Cyrus 
would get married if he could ? 

Aunt M. — Your Uncle Cyrus ! I tell you, Mary Cole, 
he wouldn't marry the best woman that ever trod ! I've 
heern him say so a hundred times. 

Mary. — Wont you answer this advertisement, auntie ? 
I'll give 3^ou a sheet of my nicest gilt-edged note-paper 
if you will ! 

Aunt M. \_furiously'].-^-li you weren't so big, Mary 
Jane Cole, I'd spank you soundly I I vow I would! 
Me answer it, indeed ! 

\_Leaves the room in great indignation.'] 

Mary. — Look here, Jack. What'll you bet she wont 
reply to that notice ? 

Jack. — Nonsense ! Wouldn't she blaze if she could 
hear you ? 

Mary. — I'll wager my new curled waterfall against 
your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie replies to Mr. ** C. G." 
before to-morrow night. 

Jack. — Done! I shall wear a curled waterfall after 
to-morrow. 

Mary. — No, sir ! But I shall wear a ruby pin. Jack, 
who do you think " C. G." is ? 

Jack. — Really, I do not know ; do you ? Ah ! I know 
you do, by that look in your eyes. Tell me, that's a 
darling. 

Mary. — Not I. I don't expose secrets to a fellow who 
tells them all over town. Besides, it would spoil the fun. 

Jack. — Mary, you are the dearest little sister in the 
world ! Tell me, please. [ Taking her hands.] 

Mary. — No, sir ! You don't get that out of me. Take 
care, now. Let go of my hands. I'm going up stairs 
t© keep an q^jq on Aunt Mattie. She's gone up now to 
write an answer to " C. G." And if there is an}^ fun by- 
and-b}^. Jack, if you're a good boy you shall be there 
to see. \ 



280 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Granny C. — To sea? Going to sea? Why, Jack 
Cole ! jou haint twentj^-one 3"et and the sea's a dreadful 
place ! There's a sarpint lives in it as big as the Scrub« 
town meeting-'iis', and whales that swaller folks alive, 
clothes and alll I read about one in a book a great 
while ago that swallered a man of the name of Jonah, 
and he didn't set well on the critter's stummuck, and up 
he come, lively as ever! 

\_Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 2. — The garden of a deserted house, in the vicin- 
ity of Mr. Golems. Mary leading Jack cautiously along 
a shaded path. 

Mary. — There ; we'll squat down behind this lilac 
bush. It's nearly the appointed hour. I heard Aunt 
Mattie soliloquizing in her room this morning, after this 
manner — "At eight o'clock this night I go to meet my 
destiny ! In the deserted garden, under the old pear- 
tree. How very romantic!" Hark! there she comes I 

Jack. — Well, of all the absurd things that ever I heard 
tell of! Who would have believed that our staid old 
maid aunt would have been guilty of answering a matri- 
monial advertisement ? 

Mary. — Hush! Jack, if you make a noise and spoil 
the fun now, I'll never forgive you. Keep your head 
still, and don't fidget so. 

Aunt Mattie ^sloivly waiting down the path — solilo- 
quizing']. — Eight o'clock ! It struck just as I started out. 
He ought to be here. Why does he tarrj^ ? If he aint 
punctual I'll give him the mitten. I swow I will! Dear 
gracious ! what a sitivation to be in ! Me, at my time 
of life ! though, to be shure, I haint so old as — as I might 
be. The dew's a-falling, and I shall get the rheumatiz 
in these tliin shoes, if he don't come quick. What if 
Jack and Mary should git hold of this.? I never should 
hear the last of it! Never! I wouldn't have 'em know 
it for a thousand dollars! Goodness me! What if it 
should be the deacon ? Them children of his'n is dread- 
fu". youngsters ; but, the Lord helping me, I'd try to train 
'ein up in the way they should go. Hark! is that him 
a-coming ? No ; it's a toad hopping through the carrot 



SCHOOLDAY DIALu^UES. 281 

bed. Mj soul and body ! what if he should want to kiss 
me ? I'll chew a clove for fear he should. I w^jnder if 
it would be properous to let him ? But then, I s'pose if 
it's the deacon I couldn't help myself He's an awful 
rieetarmined man ; and if I couldn't help it I shouldn't 
be to blame ! Deary me ! how I trimble ! There he 
comes ! I hear his step ! What a tall man ! 'Taint the 
deacon ! He's got a shawl on ! Must be the new 
schoolmaster ! he wears a shawl ! \^A man approaches. 
Miss Mattie goes up to him cautiously.'] Is this Mr. 
C. G. ? 

C. G— Yes ; it is. Is this Miss M. G. ? 

Aunt M. — It is. Dear sir, I hope you wont think me 
bold and unmaidenly in coming out here all alone in the 
dark to meet you ? 

C. G. — Never ! Ah, the happiness of this moment ! 
For forty years I have been looking for thee ! \_Puts his 
arm around her.] 

Aunt M. — Oh, dear me I don't I don't I my dear sir I 
I aint used to it ! and it aint exactly proper out here in 
this old garden ! It's a dreadful lonely spot, and if peo- 
ple should see us they might talk. 

C. G.— Let 'em talk! They'll talk still more when 
you and I are married, I reckon. Lift your vail and let 
me see your sweet face. 

Aunt M. — Yes, if you'll remove that hat and let me 
behold your countenance. 

C. G. — Now, then ; both together. 

[^Aunt M. throvjs hack her vail. C. G. removes his 
hat. They gaze at each other a moment in utier 
silenced] 

Aunt M. — Good gracious airthi 'tis brother Cyrus ! 

C. G. — Jubiter Ammon ! 'tis sister Martha ! 

Aunt M. — Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus Gordon ! 
Who'd ever a-thought of you, at your time of life, cut- 
ting up such a caper as this ? You old, bald-headed, 
gray-whiskered man ! Forty years old ! My gracious ! 
You were fifty-nine last July I 

C. G. — Well, if I am, you're two year older. So it's 
as broad as 'tis long ! 

Aunt M. — Why I thought sliure it was Deacon Good- 
rich that advertised. C. G. stands for Calvin Goodrich. 



282 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

C. G. — Yes; and it stands for Cja^us Gordon, too. 
And Deacon Goodrich was married last night to Peggy 
Jones. 

Aunt M. — That snub-nosed, red-haired Peggy Jones I 
He'd ort to be flayed alive ! Married agin ! and his wile 
not hardly cold ! Oh, the desatefulness of men ! Thank 
Providence ! I haint tied to one of the abominable sect ! 

C. G. — Well, Martha, we're both in the same boat. If 
you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it's a terrible 
disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant 
Marion Giles, the pretty milliner. 

Aunt M. — Humph! What an old goose! She 
wouldn't look at you! I heerd her latting at your 
swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last 
Sunday. But ,I'm ready to keep silence if you will. 
Gracious ! if Jack and Mary should get wind of this, 
ehouldn't we have to take it ? 

C. G.— Hark! what's that ? 

[ Voice behind the lilac-bush sings'] : 

**0h, there's many a bud the cold frost will nip, 
And there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." 

Aunt. M. — That's Jack's voice ! Goodness me! Let 
us scoot for home ! 

Jack. — Did he kiss you. Aunt Mattie ? 

Mary. — Do vou like the smell of cloves. Uncle Cyrus ? 

C. G.— Confound you both! If I had hold of ye I'd 
let you know if I like the smell of cloves, and birch, too. 
[^ Curtain falls.'] 



CHANGING SERVANTS. 

CHARACTERS. 

BiR William, a crusty master. John, a faithful servant. 
George, his waiting boy. Bob, a servant recently hired. 



Sir William [seated, with George standing]. — George, 
have 3^ou seen auy thing of John this morning ? 
George. — Yes, sir; he is at work in the garden. 
Sir Wm. — I wonder if he has attended to the horses ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 283 

George. — I suppose so, sir, for he has just come in 
from the stables. 

Sir. Wm. — Tell him to come in. I want to talk with 
him. 

George. — I will, sir. [Exit.^ 

Sir Wm. \_Jolin comes iii]. — John, did you feed the 
horses ? 

John. — Yes, sir, and watered and curried them. 

Sir Wm. — Well, you always do either too much or 
too little. You ought to have spent the time in the 
garden that you occupied rubbing the skin of the poor 
creatures. Don't you know you are too strong to curry 
a horse ? 

John. — But, if you please, sir, don't you recollect 
you told me yesterday, you would turn me off if I ne- 
glected to curr}' the horses another morning ? 

Sir Wm. — Oh, pshaw! That's another subject alto- 
gether. Tell me whether you fed them corn or oats. 

John. — Which did you want them to have ? 

Sir Wm. — Come, sir ! Can't you answer my question 
without asking half a dozen others ? Did you give 
them hay or corn ? 

John. — No, sir. 

Sib, Wm. — Well, that is a satisfactory answer, indeed I 
Tell me what you mean b}^ "no, sir." ? 

John. — I mean that I didn't give them hay nor corn. 

Sir Wm. — Then what did you give them ? 

John. — 'Well, sir. I fed them oats. 

Sir Wm. — Well, you could have done half a day's work 
while you were answering me a simple question. But 
I'll bet the lazy fellow didn't give them any salt with it. 

John. — Why, no, sir ; who ever heard of feeding salt 
with oats? 

Sir Wm. — Oh, you are so provoking ! I'll have no 
more of your impudence, sir. Tell me why you didn't 
ask me what you should feed the horses. 

John. — Because, sir, when I ask you how any thing 
shall be done, you always quarrel with me for pestering 
you. 

Sir. Wm. — Just listen at the impudent fellow ! Don't 
you know you never do any thing as I want it ? 

John. — Yes, sir ; and it is just because you never 



284 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

choose to be pleased with what I do. If I give the 
horses corn, yoa want them to have oats ; and if I give 
them oats, you want them to have corn. If I give them 
salt, yo\x quarrel; and if I donH' give it to them, you 
quarrel. 

Sir Wm. — The mischief! I'll not be talked to in this 
way by my own servants ! Get out of my house, and 
I'll see if I can't get some one that will obey my orders. 
\_John starts.'] Hold on! Where are you going? 

John. — To see if I can please you once. [^Starts.'] 

Sir Wm. — Comeback! \_8tops.'] Get out ! \_Starts 
again.'] Come back, I say ! Let me hire you over. 
Maybe you'll suit me better next time. Will you 
promise to please me ? 

John. — Will you promise to be pleased with me ? 

SirWm. — How'sthat? No! What makes you ask m.e 
that? Begone, sir! [Starts.] Come back! Come 
back ! I want to tell you something. [ Turns round.] 

John. — What is it, sir? 

Sir Wm. — Nothing. [John goes out. George comes in.] 
George, where's that fellow Bob I hired the other day ? 
Tell him to bring me my tea forthwith, immediately. 
[George goes out and returns.] 

George. — Master, Bob's asleep in the kitchen, and 
when I shake him he doesn't do nothing but grunt. 

Sir Wm. — Wake up the laz^^ villain, and tell him 1 
am waiting for m}^ tea. [George goes out.] What righv 
has he to get sleepy when I need him? [Bob comes in 
an awkward felloic] What do you mean, sir, b^ 
being sleepj^ when I send for you? Where's my teal 
Wont you answer me ? Wliere's my tea ? 

Bob. — Faith, sir, I don't know. 

Sir Wm. — Why, didn't 1 order you to bring it? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; but indeed I didn't see any thing of it. 

Sir Wm. — Why, where did you expect to find it, block- 
head ? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; I looked under the cellar steps, and 
about and about, and I didn't see a bit of tea nor a 
blockhead. 

Sir Wm. — AVell, never mind the tea just now. Tell 
me what you have been doing all the evening. 

Bob. — Hunting the granary keys, sir. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 285 

Sir Wm. — And where did you expect to find them, 
pray ? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; I looked down in the cellar awhile, 
and I thought I saw a little hole sticking in the wall 
with a little peg in it. I pulled the peg out to see if the 
keys were not in there, and lo! and behold! I found 1 
had pulled the stopper out of your old " redeye^ 

Sir Wm. — VVh}'-, yo\x impudent rascal I Pull the stop- 
per out of my best whisky ? 

Bob. — Please, sir, it was all through mistake ; entirely 
so. I thought it was a hole in the wall. As soon as I 
found out what had happened, I tried to put the stopper 
in again right quick, but I couldn't exactly find the 
place it had come out, and it wouldn't go in anywhere 
else. 

Sir Wm. — So you have been drunk all evening off my 
whisky, have 3^ou ? Why didn't you tell me of the 
mischief you had done? 

Bob. — Faith, sir, I thought of asking you down to 
drink with me ; but then I thought 3^0 u were so plagued 
selfish you wouldn't come no how. 

Sir Wm. — And I suppose you had fine drinking with 
yourself, did you ? 

Bob. — Well, no. Not exactly b}" myself, either. You 
see I waited awhile for somebody to come along to drink 
with me, and the more I waited the less the^' came ; so 
I thought I would go out and hunt some one, and the 
first person I met was a parcel of hogs, and every one, 
as they passed, said "bosh!'' by which I understood 
them to mean they would like to take a dram ; so 1 gave 
them all a drink apiece, and you ought to have seen the 
little pig-a-wiggles, how they shaked their little tails : 
and the old mamma, she's as drunk as a hog. 

Sir Wm. — Well, Bob, this is a pretty piece of business. 
I will settle with you for it directly. Go up stairs now, 
and see if that man who came in last night is readj^ for 
breakfast. Move oflT. 

Bob \_going']. — Yes, sir; if I can finc^the door. But 
please, sir, recollect it was all a mistake. I thought it 
was a hole in the wall. [(7oe.s and returns.'] 

Sir Wm. — Did you see the man. Bob ? 

Bob. — ^No, sir \ I was so sleep3^ 



286 SCflOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Sir Wm.— Well, did you hear any thing of him ? 

Bob. — Oh ! I have a ringing and singing in my ears. 

ISiR Wm. — Well, for goodness' sake.. Bob, tell me 
whether the man was dead or alive. 

Bob. — I expect he was. 

Sir Wm. — Was what, blockhead ? 

Bob. — Why, dead or alive, sir. 

Sir Wm. — Bob, if you don't want to be kicked out of 
tlie house tell me what the man was doing ? 

Bob. — Yes, sir ; he was standing on his head, asleep. 
He sent you his kindest regards, and said he hoped you 
wouldn't quarrel quite so loud. That he would like to 
get his nap out before he went to sleep. 



THE REHEARSAL. 

CHAEACTERS. 

Alfked Smith. John Clarke. * 



Scene. — A school-room. 

Alfred \wancs on to the stage and commences to speak"] 

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ; 
I come to bury Csesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do, lives after them ; 
The good is often interred with their bones ; 
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Csesar was ambitious ; 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Ciesar answered it. 
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
For Brutus is an honorable man ; 
So are they allT.nll honorable men ;) 
Come 1 to speak in Cajsar's funeral. 



Th*^ names can be changed 'o suit the persons speaking. 



SCHOOLDAY DT.\LOGUES. 287 

[^Gomes to a stop and after studijing a short time 
repeats'] : — 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

\_Sto])s again. John enters."] 

John. — Alfred, stand back and let me speak. You 
have forgotten jovlv speech. 

\_Alfred goes to hack of stage and John commences.] 

The loss of a firm national character, or the degra- 
dation of a nation's honor, is the inevitable prelude to 
her destruction. Behold, the once proud fabric of a 
Roman empire — an empire carrying its arts and arms 
into every part of the eastern continent ; the monarchs 
of mighty kingdoms dragged at the wheels of her 
triumphant chariots ; her eagle waving over the ruins 
of desolated countries. Where is her splendor, her 
wealth, her power, her glory ? Extinguished for ever. 
Her mouldering temples, the mournful vestiges of her 
former grandeur, afford a shelter to her muttering 
Monks. [_Gomes to a stop and after studying a short 
time, repeats]: — Afford a shelter to her muttering 
Monks -[^Stops again.] 

Alfred. — Ah, ha ! Guess you don't remember your 
speech much better than I did mine ! We will both 
have to study hard, or we will not get along very 
well at the exhibition to-morrow night. 

John. — That's ver}^ true, 

Alfred. — It would be an awful bore on us if we 
should come on the stage and forget our speeches. 

John. — But, you know, we will have a prompter who 
will help us through if we stick. 

Alfred. — I know, but I do not want to trust to a 
prompter. I want to have my speech perfectly commit- 
ted; and speali it without any help. 

John. — I really don't see any use in these exhibitions. 
I think our teacher might have us employed in some 
other way that would be of more use to us. 

Alfred. — I can not agree with you. The object of 
these exhibitions is to enable us to speak, in public. 
Before I commenced to learn to speak in this way, and 
before we commenced to debate, I could say nothing in 
public. Now I pride m3'Self on being able to get up 
before a large audience and say a few words " off-hand" 



288 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

as we call it. I thiuk it is of incalculable benefit to a 
person to be able to do this. 

John. — Pooh ! it is nothing to get np at singing 
school or at L^-ceum meeting, and say a few words, but 
it would be an entirely difiereut matter if you were in a 
strange place and before a strange crowd — 3'ou would 
find it more difficult than to make a speech and spread 
yourself, as you sometimes do in debate. 

Alfred. — I agree with you that it would be harder to 
speak before an audience of strangers than it would be 
to speak to persons you are well acquainted with ; but, 
with practice, 3'ou know, we can accomplish any thing. 

But, John, do you know that Mr. (county super' 

intendent) is in the neighborhood, and will be here at 
the exhibition to-morrow evening ? 

John. — Really ! will he ? How did you hear that ? 

Alfred. — 1 saw Mr. {the teacher) this evening 

as I was coming here, and he told me. 

John. — Well, if he is coming we will have to carry 
ourselves straight, and act our prettiest. I must say 
that I'd as lief he'd stay away. I shall feel somewhat 
scared if such an important personage is present. 

Alfred. — Mr. , and Mr. , and Mr. , and 

Mr. {directorf<) will be here, too. Will you not 

feel afraid to speak before them ? 

John. — No, not much ; I have seen them often and do 
not feel afraid of them. I know they are learned and 
intelligent men, but still they aie not great men like 

Mr. (sup'^rintendent), and then the}' know that our 

advantages are not great and will not expect as much 

of us as it is probable Mr. (superintendeiit) will. 

But I have heard some persons say that you will be 
called on for an extemporaneous speech. If you should 
be, what will you do ? 

Alfred. — Make the attempt, of course. 

John. — Ho ho! I wouldn't! I'd decline. Why 3'oull 
make a fool of yourself if 3'ou trv. 

Alfred. — I don't care. Of course tbev will not ex- 
pect much of me, and even if I do not get along very 
well, I can have it to say I made the attempt, and after 
having made the first attempt it will not be so hard to 
make the second. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 289 

John. — Suppose 3^ou step out, now, and give us an 
extemporaneous speecli. 

Alfred. — Well — really — I don't know what to say. 

John, — Ha, ha ! That's the way it will be to-morrow 
evening. Youll not think of any thing to say, and 
when it comes to the point you'll back down. 

Alfred. — No, sir ; I'll make the attempt, if I should 
only say ten words. 

John. — Well, suppose you say ten words now. 

Alfred. — I'll tell you what I'll do. If I am to be 
asked for an off-hand speech to-morrow night I will say 
something now that will bear repeating. 

John. — Well go ahead. 

Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen, jou know I am no 

speech-maker. I am onl}^ a school-bo}^ of number . 

But why may we not have great orators and great 

statesmen in number ? I believe there are smart 

boys here — some perhaps as smart as were numbered 
in the schools to which Henrj^' Clay and Daniel Webster 
and Thomos H. Benton belonged. We are a great 
people — and [^Pause']. 

John. — Stuck, are you? 

Alfred. — No, I'm waiting for a cheer. 

John. — Well, here it is. [C/ieers.] 

Alfred [^continues']. — There have been a great many 
people in this country. 

John. — Ha! ha! ha! 

Alfred. — I mean there have been a great man}^ great 
people in this country, and why may we not have a 
great man in number ? 

John. — That's what I want to know ? 

Alfred. — Don't interrupt me, and I'll sa}^ something 
grand after while. If Daniel Webster made a big 
dictionar}^ and a spelling-book why may not 

John. — 'Twasn't Dan made the big dictionary and 
the spelling-book — 'twas Noah. 

Alfred. — Oh, so it was! Well, if Noah Webster 
made a big dictionary, and if Daniel Webster was great 
on speech making, ma}" we not find a Daniel or a Noah 
in this school ? 

John. — Yes ; there's a Daniel in our school — Dan 
19 



290 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Jones, He's a smart fellow when it comes to sock 
ball. 

Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen — My name is 
Norval 

John. — Hold on, old fellow ! We want something 
original. 

ALFRED.-r-We are but a band of small boys ; not very 
small either, we feel pretty large — but I feel sure the 
time will come when we will be big boys, and go home 
with the girls from singing school just as [^introduce 
names to suit] Jim Wilson and John Harrison and Sam 
Hayes do now. {^Alfred applauds tremendously.] And 
the time will come yes — ladies and gentlemen — the time 
will come when the little girls of our school will spread 
themselves and feel as big as [introduce names to suit] 
Sallie Jones and Jane White and Suzy Wilson do now. 
And, ladies and gentlemen, when that time does come, 
Sallie Jones and Jane White and Suzy Wilson will be 
considerably up in years. Yes, Mr. President and 
fellow-citizens, they will be, to speak plainly, old maids ; 
or if they are not old maids who knows but their names 
may be Sallie Wilson or Jane Harrison or Suz}'' Hayes 
and perhaps they will be thumping little boys and little 
girls and sending them off to school just as certain 
little boys and little girls are being thumped and sent 
off to school now. [Alfred applauds and shouts *' good, 
good /"] Somebody says that the world moves, and I 
believe it's a fact. The people in the world keep moving 
too. One man goes up like a rocket and creates a 
noise in the world and makes a flash, and then he goes 
out and all is darkness. But they don't all go up like 
a rocket and then die out. Some shine on, and shine 
on, and shine on, and the longer they shine the brighter 
they shine. That's the way the boys of number in- 
tend to shine. [Alfred applauds and shouts " that^s so .^"] 

Now if I was as old as Mr. , and Mr. , and Mr. 

, [naming some of the young men present] I'll tell 

you what I would do. I'd get married ! I don't know 
wh}' it is that some persons will live on and live on and 
not get married. I don't think that's right! Do you ? 
The Bible is a good book, and the Bible says people 
ought to get married. Now if I was a young lady and 
if such a fellow as Jim Wilson or John Hanison or 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 291 

Sam Haves was coming to see me. and taking me home 
from singing school and if he wonldn't propose. I'll tell 
you how I'd bring him to the point. I'd tell him that I 
thought a great deal of John Clark or Alfred Smith, 
that they were two very smart young men, and that if 
they were just a little older I would marry one of them. 

John. — Hal ha I ha I I don't think that would 
frighten them into a proposal. 

Alfred. — Ladies and gentlemen \_introduce names 
to suif] Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Powell, and Mr. Adams 
and Mr. Jones are present, and as the}" are learned and 
intelligent men I had better not sa}' any thing more, or 
they may lose their good opinion of me. Haven't I 
made a prett}' long speech '? I didn't know what I 
would sa}' when I got up, but I was determined to say 
something. You all know it isn't right for a bo}' to 
have too much brass in his face, but I think you wil) 
all agree with me that he ought to have eaough to at- 
tempt to make a speech when called upon. And now 
having said my say, I make my best bow and retire. 

John [fl7Jji/rt?a7^\]— Instead of giving us ten words yoi 
have given us quite a long speech. You have don*- 
yourself credit, Alfred, and if you do as well to-morrow 

night, Mr. (superintendent) will open bis eyes in 

astonishment. 

Alfred. — Thank you. John. But come, let^is be off 
and prejjare for rehearsing that "• Contentious Cs^mmu- 
nit}'" dialogue. 

John. — All right — come ahead. lE.veunt.^ 
ICurtainfalls.^ 



DEAF rXCLE ZED. 



Jack Fairweather [^enters icith letter^. — Mrs. Cather- 
ine Lavina Fairweather: that must mean, the old lady 
herself Yes, sir-e-e it's for her ; looks like it might 
contain a bit of the sentimental. Plenty of room for il 
in that dainty envelope. Ha. ha I 

Mrs. Fairweather. — Jaek. what are you talking 
about '? What's that ? Come here, sir. 



292 SCHOOL DAY DIALOGUES. 

Jack. — Oh, I've just brought you a "billy-ducks." 

Mrs. F.— a what ? 

Jack. — No, a " billy-ducks," that's what my educated 
sister Sophronia Janette Amerette calls 'em. 

Mrs. F. — Explain yourself; how dare you talk thus 
to your mother ? 

Jack. — Reckon that's the Latin of it — here it is in 
English. [^Holding up the letter.'] 

Mrs. F. [taking the letter]. — A letter, you young ras- 
cal. Post-marked Manchester, too. It is from your 
Uncle Zedekiah Fairweather. [Proceeds to open it.] 
Well that's good. I only hope the old curmudgeon has 
opened his heart and sent us some of the needful. 

Jack. — So do I. Hello, Tim [enter Tim] I here's a 
letter from Uncle Zed. 

Tim. — Who cares ! 

Jack. — But there's lots of money in it. 

Tim.— Three cheers. Bully for Uncle Zed I 

Jack. — Now we'll get our new skates. 

Tim. — And go to the show and ride the elephant. 

Both Boys. — Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 

Mrs. F.— Hush boys, don't be quite so fast. Call 
your sister. 

Jack. — And Lucy, too ? 

Mrs. F. — No difference about her. 

[Jack goes out — enters with the girls.] 

Janette. — What do you want, mother ? 

Mrs. F. — Listen, children. I have received a letter 
from your Uncle Zedekiah. You know I wrote to him 
some time since, asking him for some money, which we 
need very badly. He has plenty, and I hoped when he 
heard the story of our needs, he would open his miserly 
old heart and lend a helping hand to the family of his 
only brother. Here is his reply : — My dear sister. I 
have just received yours of the 24th inst. My health 
is in a very precarious condition': my hearing is also 
somewhat impaired ; nevertheless I have decided to visit 
you. If my life is spared, you may expect me to arrive 
next Tuesday, and hy my presence I will endeavor to 
cheer your lonely home. Until then, adieu. Your 
brother, Zedekiah. 

Janette. — Oh ! horrible I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 293 

Jack. — Why, sis, aint he going to bring us presents ? 

Tim. — Hurrah, we'll have capital fun. 

Janette. — Oh, ray poor nerves ! Only think of 
screaming at the top of one's voice for weeks. I sup- 
pose that he is as deaf as a ]30st. 

Lucy. — That's his misfortune, not his fault. 

Mrs. F. — Hush, Miss Impertinence. Now, children, 
we must make the best of it. 

Janette. — Do write to him not to come. 

Jack. — Guess that wont do much good now. This is 
Tuesday, he will be here to-da3^ You can save your 
postage, and tell him when he arrives. 

Tim. — Hope he will come, and wear the same suit he 
did six years ago. 'Twould be better than a show. 

Mrs. F. — Now boys, listen to me. Your uncle will 
doubtless arrive soon. There's no help for it, and, as I 
said before, we must make the best of it. He's rich, and 
we are poor. We must be civil to him while he lives, or 
we will never be benefited by his death. 

Jack. — And maybe not then. 

Mrs. F. — Go, now, boys, put on your best suits, and 
go to the depot to meet him. I will follow you as soon 
as I set things to right here. \_Exit hoys.'] Lucy, Lucy. 
Where is that numbskull ? 

Lucy. — Yes — ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — I have called you half a dozen times. Go 
arrange the east room for our uncle. 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. [^Exit Lucy.'] 

Mrs, F.— Now, daughter, compose yourself; do only 
win the favor of your uncle, and your fortune's made. 

Janette. — Oh, the dreadful old-fashioned, cross, deaf, 
old creature ! How can we have him around here. 
You know he will be in the parlor, whether he is wanted 
or not. Then, too, he will be bound to know every 
word that is said. All deaf folks do ! Oh, I shall faint 
if Don Pedro happens to meet him. 

Mrs. F. — Cheer up, my daughter. Perhaps he will 
keep his room ; you know his health is poor. 

Janette. — That's all the consolation I have. 

Mrs. F. — Hope for the best, Janette Ameretti, my 
dear. But I must be going; it's nearly train time. 
Look bright when we come in; that's a good girll 



294 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

\_Enter Lucy.'] Well, miss, have you done as I ordered 
you? , 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F.— Did you light the fire ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Did you dust the furniture? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Did 3^0 u air the room ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Did you arrange that arm-chair? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — And prepare the dressing-gown ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — And the slippers ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — And the smoking-cap ? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Very well ; now you keep out of the way 
until called for. \_Exit Mrs. F.] 

Janette. — What's to become of us I Must we submit 
to be bored to death with that crusty, cross, deaf, old 
bachelor ? 

Lucy. — Have you seen him lately. Miss Janette ? 

Janette. — No, and I wish I could be spared the in- 
fliction now. 

Lucy. — He may prove pleasanter than you imagine 
him to be. We should not be too rash in our judgment 
of others. 

Janette.— Oh, you'd better talk to me. Miss Charity ; 
you are alwaj^s setting yourself as a model of perfec- 
tion. No doubt 3^ou will do all you can to get my uncle's 
money. It's plain to me that's all you are after now. 

Lucy. — Oh, Jennie, how can you speak so ? [^Exit.] 

Janette \_alone]. — Only think of me, Sophronia Jan» 
ette Amerette Fairweather, primped up in the parlor, 
screaming at the top of my voice, " I hope you are well, 
Uncle Zedekiah," only I don't. Oh, my poor lungs. 
Well there's one consolation; one can say just what 
she chooses about him, and he will never know it. But 
here they come. \_Enier hoys with large trunk.'] 

Jack. — Gracious me I put it down. I'm all out of 
breath. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 295 

Tim. — Oh, sis, you onght to see him ; here he goes I 

[ Walks acj'oss the stage imitating Uncle Zedehiah.'] 

Janette. — Where is he ? 

Jack. — Oh. he is c-oming with mother. He can't 
walk very fast, you know. 

Janette. — Suppose he has the gout, too ? 

Tim. — Oh. sis, I should like to see him dance a jig 
with you. 

Janette. — I only wish I were rich, he would dance 
his jigs alone, and in some other locality, I imagine. 

Jack. — You had better begin to look pleasant. He 
will be here soon. I think from the appearance of his 
trunk, his presence will be considerable, if not more. 

Tim. — Yes, we will all enjoy it muchly. Sis looks the 
Yery conglomeration of sweetness now. 

Jan'ETTE. — There, there's the bell now. Lucy will 
open the door of course I \^Exit Janette.'] 

\_Ente7^ 3Trs. F., with Uncle Z. leaning on her arm, 
followed by Lucy, with numerous bundles. Boys 
remain seated on the trunk. Jlrs. F. sjjeaks very 
loud.] 

Mrs. F. — There, my dear brother, we have arrived at 
last. 

Uncle Z. — What, ha I 

Mrs. F. — I say we are at home. 

Jack. — And wish you were too. 

Fncle Z. — Please speak a little louder. 

Mrs. F. — Pray be seated in this chair ; Lucy, wheel it 
around here. You must be fatigued with such a iourneY ? 

Uncle Z.— Ha ? ^ 

Mrs. F. [sc?^eam^ out]. — Fatigued, tired, I say ? 

Uncle Z. — I don't just hear right ? 

Mrs. F. — You must be tired after your long ride ? 

Tim. — I wonder where Xoah was old feller, when you 
took that coat out of the ark ? 

Uncle Z. — Ha ? \^Seating himself in the arm-chair.] 

Mrs. F. — He was asking you to give him your coat, 
to hang up for you in the hall. 

Uncle Z. — Give him — what ? 

Mrs. F. — Your great-coat. 

L'ncle Z. — Can't spare it yet awhile, young man. 



296 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Seems to me if you would go honestly to work, you 
might earn one for yourself. Here, m}^ little girl [_to 
Lucy'], wont you help me take this coat off. \_Lucy helps 
him.'] 

Mrs. F. — You didn't understand Timothy, uncle I 

Uncle Z. — Oh, yes. 

Mrs. F. — Now, boys, hold your tongues. \_Boys take 
hold of their tongues.] Behave yourselves, I say, or you 
will spoil all. 

Jack. — He's most bare-footed on top of his head, 
aren't he, Tim ? 

Tim. — Shouldn't wo/ider. Let's recommend him to 
use " Spaulding's glue ;" that will bring bar out, I guess. 

Uncle Z. [to boys]. — What are you saying ? 

Tim. — It's a fine day, sir, but likely to rain. 

Uncle Z. — Oh yes, yes. 

Mrs. F. — Now, my dear brother, do try to be com- 
fortable. Don't mind those boys. You must see my 
charming daughter. 

Uncle Z.— Ha ? 

Mrs. F. — Janette j^merette will be delighted to see 
you. 

Jack. — In Ballehack, or some other place as faraway. 

Mrs. F. — Hush, Jack. She was so happy to hear 
you were coming to stay awhile with us. Indeed, she 
was quite agitated. 

Uncle Z. [to Lucy]. — My little girl, will you please 
put that chair up this way ? My foot pains me most 
dreadful bad. 

Mrs. F. — Set it up here. Move, I say. [Lucy obeys.] 

Uncle Z. — There, thank you. 

Tim. — Jack, I say, aint he what Dickens might call a 
"line figure of a man." Bow to the aged. [Boys bow. 
Uncle Z. loohing around, sees them.] 

Uncle Z. — Seems to me you are rather late making 
your manners, boys ; but it's better late than never. 

Mrs. F. — But better never late. Boys are so thought- 
less. [To boys.] It's lucky he doesn't hear you, my lads. 
If you don't behave, I will send you out of the room in 
disgrace. 

Boys. — What 1 send us from our uncle ? 

Jack. — You could not be so cruel, mother I If I 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 297 

only had an organ, he would make such a nice monkey. 
Wouldn't we go traveling ! 

Uncle Z.— Ha ? 

Mrs. F. — He says it's pleasant traveling with good 
company. 

Uncle Z. — No doubt, no doubt ! 

Jack. — Hurrah ! Mother, you're a trump I 

Mrs. F. — Lucy, Lucy? 

Lucy. — Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. F. — Go call Janette. Uncle, do take some of 
this nice red wine, it will strengthen you. 

Uncle Z.— Ha ! What did you say ? 

Mrs. F. — Wine, to strengthen you. 

Uncle Z. — I never taste liquor. 

Mrs. F. [_fo boys']. — The old curmudgeon, when I 
bought it on purpose for him. 

[JEnter Lucy and Janette.'] 

Mrs. F. — Brother Zedekiah, this is your affectionate 
niece. 

[Uncle Z. rises, puts out his hand. Janette puts 
her arms around his neck.] 

Janette. — My dear, good uncle, I have been dying 
to sec you ! 

Uncle Z.— What, ha ? 

Janette. — I have been dying to see you. 

Uncle Z. — What, dying ? What appears to be the 
matter ? 

Jack. — Upon confounded consideration, I have con- 
cluded that her pride is wounded, and mortification has 
sot in. 

Uncle Z.— Ha ? 

Mrs. F. — Jack, leave the room. [ To uncle.] He 
says he is glad you have come to cheer his sister. 

Uncle Z. — No doubt ! no doubt ! Janette, you've 
been sick, have you? You don't exercise enough. 
That's the way with you youngsters now-a-days. 

Tim. — Shall I hit him, sis ? 

Uncle Z. — But while I stay, you've got to jump 
>iround smart and wait on me. Maybe it will do you 
some good. 

Janette. — It will afford me much pleasure to serve 
you, dear ^mcle I 



298 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Jack. — " Over the left," you know. 

Uncle Z. — Speak a little louder ? 

Janette. — You can't please me better than to let me 
wait on you ! 

Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand ; then I will let you 
do it. I always try to please the ladies. Just hand 
rae that bundle. 

Janette [to Lucy']. — Get that bundle. [Lucy hands 
the bundle to Uncle Z., who begins to open it] 

Jack. — Audience please give contention. The inform- 
auce is about to commence. 

[Uncle Z. takes out an immense ear-trumpet, and 
puts it up to his ear. Boys sing out .•] 

" The elephant now goes 'round, the band begins to 
play, the boys about the monkej^'s cage had better keep 
away." 

Uncle Z. — Maybe this will be some help to us. 

Janette. — Oh, I don't mind speaking out loud to 
you. Mother, do take him to his room. 

Uncle Z. [hands bundle to Janette]. — Now do this up, 
and put it away. 

[Janette hands it to Lucy. Jack takes it, puts 
it on a cane over his shoulder, and promenades 
behind Uncle Z. Door-bell 7'ings.] 

Janette. — Oh, horror, mother! That's Don Pedro 
now. Do take him away. [Lucy starts to the door.] 
Wait a minute, you minx. 

[Boys begin to gather up bundles.] 

Uncle Z. [to Janette]. — Can't you get a pillow now 
and put to my back, Janette ? 

Mrs. F. — Wont j^ou retire, uncle, you must be tired ? 

Uncle Z. [using the ear-trumpet]. — Ha? 

Mrs. F. — Wont you retire, j^ou must be tired ? 

Uncle Z. — Of course I'm tired, but will be very com- 
fortable if I only get a pillow. 

Mrs. F. — I think you'd best go to bed I 

Uncle Z. — Oh, no ; not to bed these three hours ye\ ! 
It's earl}^ yet! [Bell rings again.] 

Mrs. F. — Well, then, step out in the other room and 
have some tea. 

Uncle Z. — Some what ? 



' SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 299 

Mrs. F. — Some tea. 

Uncle Z. — Well, yes. Bring it in here. [Bell rings.'] 

Janette. — Oh, what shall I do. Uncle, dear uncle, 
the tea is in the other room. Come and get it, wont 
you^f [Bell rings. Exit Lucy.] 

Jack. — We might ride him out on this cane, Tim, 
free grratis for nothino^, wont cost him two cents. 

Janette. — I wish he had some sense. 

Tim. — I wish we had some of his c-e-n-t-s. Yes, and 
dollars, too. 

Mrs. F. — Come, uncle. 

[Exit all except Janette. Enter Lucy iviih a dandy. 
Lucy retires.] 

Don Pedro. — Bon soir, mademoiselle. 

Janette. — ^Tres bien, monsieur. I am so glad you 
have come ! 

Don. — I am delighted to see mon cher looking so well, 
ce soir. [ They sit down on a sofa.] 

Janette. — This is a delightful evening ! 

Don. — Yes, very. The moon looks down in splendah. 

Janette. — Yes. It reminds me of the words of the 
poet : " The moon shines bright." 

Don. — Bon, bon. You have such a magnificent bump 
of memory, mon cher! Wont you sing "Meet me by 
moonlight alone, love?" 

Janette [affectedly]. — Oh, dear, I can't. I have such 
a cold. 

Don. — Oh, those lovely strains ! It would fill my 
soul with joy to hear your sweet voice I 

Janette. — Indeed, I can't. 

Don. — Please just try, for my sake, Janette, dear ? 

Janette. — Well, then, for your sake, remember ! 
[Janette sings. Uncle Z. comes hobbling into the 
room, followed by the rest. of the family. She stops 
singing — looks confused.] 

Mrs. F. [screams]. — Here, this way, this door, this 
door. 

Uncle Z. [making himself comfortable]. — Oh, this 
iocs very well. 

Don. — 'Pon my word, now, who's that ? 

Both Boys. — Put him out, put him out. 

Janette. — Oh, he's an old superannuated Methodist 



300 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

preacher, who once met pa. Ma, do take him to his 
room. This is an imposition. 

Jack. — I sslj, Mr. Don, don't you want to be intro- 
duced to this here new arrival, just from your town — 
Paris ? Maybe you've met before ? 

Uncle Z. [to Lucy']. — My little girl, will you get me 
the paper? 

Lucy [handing it to him']. — Yes, sir. 

[ Uncle Z. puts on his glasses, takes some snuff, and 
begins to read.] 

Mrs. F. [speaks through the trumpet]. — Will you go 
to your room ? 

Uncle Z.— What ! Where ! Ha ? 

Mrs. F. — Up stairs to your room. 

Uncle Z. — Oh, don't trouble yourself, I am very com- 
fortable here. But who's this ? you haven't introduced 
me 3^et ? 

Mrs. F.— This is Dor Pedro, Mr. Jones. [Says Mr. 
Jones in a low tone.] 

[Don Pedro bows very low. Uncle Z. shakes his 
hand very Jiard.] 

Uncle Z — How dy'e do. Your folks all well? 

Janette. — Oh, I shall faint. 

Don. — Happy to meet you, Mr. Jones I 

Uncle Z. — Ha ? Speak a little louder ? 

Don [speaks through the trumpet]. — Happy to meet 
you, Mr. Jones ! Are you well, Mr. Jones ? 

Uncle Z.— Who? 

Mrs. F. — Do you know Mr. Jones ? 

Uncle Z. — What do 3^ou mean ? I don't know Jones. 

Don [out of breath]. — Oh 1 Oh I mon cher 1 He ought 
to be in the lunatic asylum. 

Janette. — Don't talk to him any more. 

Don. — Not if I can avoid it, I do assure you, made- 
moiselle 1 

Mrs. F. — I fear you are exerting yourself too much ? 

Uncle Z. [to Don]. — How's the crops in your section ? 
[Don Pedro looks confused.] 

Jack [aside]. — Every thing's green, I reckon I 

Uncle Z. — 1 say, young man 

Mrs. F. — This young gentleman lives in the city. 

Uncle Z. — Ha ? Speak louder. 



SCHOOLDA^' DIALOGUKS. 301 

Mrs. F. — Don Pedro lives in the city. 

Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand now! Your name is 
John, is it ? John Peters ! Well now it appears to me 
I ought to know your folks ? 

Don. — They live in a foreign clime. 

Uncle Z. — Oh, in former times, of course ! I knew 
toe Peters's down behind old Lancaster, in Pennsyl- 
vany. [^Boys laugh heartily.^ 

Janette. — You didn't understand him, sir. 

Uncle Z. — No, no. I don't pretend to mind the 
youngsters ; but your father I dar'e say, was as honest a 
shoemaker as lived in them parts. Do you follow his 
trade, John ? 

Don. — I am a foreigner, sir ! 

Uncle Z. — A farmer I ah yes. What's the price of 
squashes ? 

Jack [very loud']. — He can tell you that better after 
he offers his head for sale, and somebody bids on it ! 
[Janette faints, Don Pedro snatches his hat and 
leaves. General confusion. Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 2d. — Mother and daughter seated by a table. 

, Janette. — Well, well, something must be done.' I 
have endured this as long as I can. Three months to- 
day, since he arrived, and no hope of his leaving yet. 
No compensation for our trouble either. I liave sub- 
mitted to mortifications enough. I wont endure it. 

Mrs. ¥. — Have patience, my child ! Don't be too 
hasty. I don't like the old clod-hopper any better than 
you do, but I have an eye on his money; and if j^ou are 
liot more considerate we shall lose all. 

Janette. — I think our prospects of having any of it 
to lose are not very bright at present. 

Mrs. F. — No; and all on account of 3^our own folly 
and rashness, I do assure you. If you had acted the 
part that little pauper Lucy has, you might now stand 
just as high in the estimation of your uncle as she 
does. 

Janette [angrily]. — Don't talk to me about that 
minx. She is always out of the way when she ought 
to be in, and in the wa}" when she ought to be out. 



802 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. F. — Well, we must make the best of it. To 
turn her out of the house would be certain death to all 
our hopes. So you must try and make amends for your 
past bad conduct toward your uncle, and undermine 
his confidence in her as far as possible. That's our only 
hope. now. 

Janette. — Bad conduct, indeed ! Who has suffered 
more at his hands than I ? Who has done more to try 
to please the quarrelsome old bachelor than I? Yes, 1 
say who has suffered. Only think of him insulting Don 
Pedro, so that he never entered the house again. Just 
as he was about to propose, too. I say I wont stand it. 
I wish old Zedekiah Fairweather were in the bottom of 
the Mississippi. 

Mrs. F. — So do I, I am sure, but I don't want him to 
take his money with him. I intend to have that, 

\_Enter Uncle Z. fashionably dressed, with traveling 
satchel in hand.'\ 

Uncle Z. — You've taken a poor way to obtain it, I fear. 
l^Janette and Mrs. F. scream. Enter the whole 
family. 2 

Janette. — Eaves-dropper I Eaves-dropper I 

Mrs. F. — Hush, Janette. My dear brother — what can 
be the matter ? 

Uncle Z. — Hear, madam. I beg of you to listen to 
me a moment. I am about to take my departure, and 
have come to bid you farewell. 

Mrs. F. — What! leave us so soon ? Impossible I 

Uncle Z. — Yes, madam. My baggage has been sent 
to the train, and I must soon follow. 

Janette [_very loud']. — Why did you not tell us ? 

Uncle Z. — Oh, I can hear verj' well. Don't exert 
yourself. 

Mrs. F. — Oh — oh — oh, sir — dear uncle, we — we beg 
your pardon. 

Uncle Z. — For your hospitality, accept my sincere 
thanks ; and when your hopeful sons want to go travel- 
ing with a hand-organ and monkey, please call on me, 
and 1 will furnish their outfit. And when they have 
traveled all the country round, and grown old and bald, 
[ will recommend the use of " Spaulding's glue." 
[Boys drop their heads.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 303 

Mrs. F. — Oh, we are undone, we are undone. 

Uncle Z. po Lucy']. — And to 3'Ou, my faithful little 
friend, I donate a scholarship in one of our best schools, 
where you can have every advantage, and become fitted 
for the station in life which nature intended 3'ou to 
occup3\ 

Lucy. — Oh, sir, how can I thank you for your kindness. 

Uncle Z. — But I must not forget my dear niece, who 
has been so deeply injured by the loss of John Peters, 
alias Don Pedro. To compensate her, I give her this 
package {^presents a box], which is to be opened after 
m}^ departure. 

Janette. — Oh, my dear, good uncle, yom: kindness 
quite overcomes me ! Do stay longer with us. 

Uncle Z. — No, I can't now. Come, Lucy, get your 
bonnet, child, we must be going. Good-by, one and all. 
\_Exit Uncle Z. and Lucy.'] 

Mrs. F.— We are well rid of both of them. What if 
he did hear us ! I knew he would not have it in his 
heart to leave us nothing. The box is quite heavy. 
Open it, quick ! 

Boys. — Yes, quick ; you must share with us ? 

Jack. — I knew our time would come. Who cares 

if 

[^Janette, after removing many wrappings, holds up 
to view the ear-trumpet. Curtain falls.] 



EGYPTIAN DEBATE. 
Between Hon. Felix Garrote, and Ebenezer Slabside, Esq. 



[Subject of Debate — AVho desarves the greatest praise, Kris- 
terfer Kerlumbus for diskiverin' Amerika, or Mr. Washington 
for defendin' on't ? Scene. — Lyceum in Egypt, Illinois.] 

Hon. Felix Garrote arose: — 

Mr. President, & gentlemens of this here 
Lyceum : Kerlumbus was born in the year 1492, durin^ 
the rain of Julius Caesar at Rome, a small town in 
grease, situated on the banks of the Nile, a small creek 



804 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

which takes its rise in the Alps, and flows in a southwest 
course and emties into the gulf of Mexico. Mr. Ker- 
lumbuses parients was pore. His pap was a basket ma- 
ker, and bein' so low in their sarcumstances, they were 
tetotally unable fur to give their orphant son that edu- 
cation which his genius and talent demanded. They 
therefore bound him to a shephurd who sot 1 mi to 
watchin' swine on the sea-beat shores of the Nile ; and 
it was thar, Mr. President, it was thar, sir, by the corn- 
stalk and rush-light lire, that this immortle youth fust 
larnt to read, write, and syphur, and all the other var- 
ious and useful accomplishments of English and foren 
literature. It was thar, sir, by this corn-stalk and rush- 
light fire, that, readin' the history of Robertson Crusoe, 
it conspired in his youthful breast the seeds of sympathy 
and ambition ; sympathy, sir, to rescue that unfortunate 
hero from his solitary and alone situation on the island 
of Mr. John Fernandez, and return him once more to 
the bosom of his family in Jarmany — ambition, sir, to 
diskiver a island which no white person had ever yit 
diskivered, (except Crusoe,) and he warn't considered 
nobody at home. To place upon the mariner's com- 
pass that island, and tharby render his name immortler. 

He accordin'ly made immediate application to Julius 
Caesar for two canoos and a yawl, eight men, and per- 
visions to last him a two weeks' cruise ; but, sir, he was 
indignantly refused ! He was took up next day — tried 
by a court martial for treason — found guilty, and sen- 
tenced to three months' banishment upon the island of 
Cuba, a small island in the Mediterranean ocean, a 
island at present hankered after by the Southern Con- 
federacy as the seat of government, becase a capital of 
a rival and jealous Confederacy never can exist on the 
same continent with ourn. There must be, gentlemen 
of this here Lyceum, there must be at least a consider- 
able slice of ocean l)etween our capital city and the 
throne of a traitor or tyrant, who would dare to destroy 
the union I 

lUit to return to the pint. Kerlumbus were far from 
bein' unintimidated or discouraged, howsumever, by 
this here mean treatment, but on the contrary, he was 
inspired witii increased energy and rejiewed hopes and 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 305 

ambition — and, sir, I can put into the mouth of my 
hero, ttie immortle words which Milton put into the 
mouth of the Duke of Weilingtown at the siege of Bun- 
ker Hill 

"Once more into the breeches, dear friends, once more." 

When the tarm of his banishment had expired, he re- 
turned to Rome, and found that Caesar had died again, 
and that Alexander the Great had succeeded him. He 
made the same demand of EHick that he made to Mr. 
Caesar, and met with a similar denial — but finally at 
last, through the intermediation of Cleopatra, (Ellick's 
fust wife,) he succeeded. 

It is onneccessary for me to enter into the detail of 
his outfit and voyage — suffice it to say, as there is no 
needcessit}^ as I hinted before, for to particzderize on 
the incidental and numerical sarcumstances of his — a — a 
— his blockade — I mean of his a — fleet, suffice it to say, 
as 1 said before, that after having been absent from his 
own native shores two long weeks, he diskivered, one 
day, from the mast-head, not the long-sought island of 
John Fernandez, Esq., but a severe gail! 1 will not tell 
you how they hove to, and how they hove up, and every 
thing of that there kind, but after they had been tossed 
on waves that run raountaings high, he was at last 
wrecked, and his crew all lost, (except hisself and one 
other man,) and they was throwed upon a state of insen- 
sibility. 

When he come to, he rose up in the majesty of his 
strength and found he was on a island. So he pulled 
out his red cotton palmetto handkercher, tied it onto a 
fish-pole and rared the standard of South Carolina, and 
took formal possession of the territory in the name of 
Alexander the Great, and called it San *S'aZ-va(ior, in 
honor of Cleopatra's only dater. Now Cleopatra was 
so well pleased with the honor conferred upon her dater, 
that she migrated to this country for to settle. Hence, 
sir, the long line of descendants so distinguished in our 
gelorious country's history, and known as PATriots 
from the Hebrew varb, Cleopa/^ra. 

Now, sir, having accomplished the great and para- 
mount object of his subZmiar3^ career, he was ready for 
20 



806 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

to die. The natives, therefore, for intrudin' upon their 
sile, took him prisoner, maltreated him with Carolina 
tar and goose feathers, and eventually at last rid him 
on a rail 1 And thus did rails become notorious as the 
means of carrying contemporary great men of more 
modern ages, into the most highest orifice within the 
gift of a gelorious empire, to the terror and dismay of 
the patriots of the region of swamps and rattlesnakes. 
And thus perished one of the truly great and good men 
of the antediluvean period of the middle century, the 
prince of navigators, who lived and died for mankind, 
(and that of course includes us Egyptians,) therefore 
we are doubly indebted to him for gratitude ! 

One more remark allow me to say, Mr. President, and 
gentlemen of this here Lyceum, and I am done, and I 
want to impress it upon your mind. If it had not have 
been for Keristofer Kerlumbus, Mr. Washington would 
have never have been born, so he wouldn't — besides all 
this, Mr. Washington was a coward. 

With these remarks I leave the floor for abler hands. 
\_Mr. Slahside rises highly excited.^ 

Mr. President : — I am dumbfounded — I am tetotal- 
istically and surrupticiously surprised at the quiet man- 
ner in which you have listened and liearn the susper- 
sions of character of that great and good man — my 
blood's been bilin hot, to think of the audacious propin- 
quity of the speaker who had the last floor — Mr. Wash- 
iyigton a coward I — Mr. Washington a coward I His 
character, sir, is as pure and as spotless as the African 
snows, thrice bleached by the howling zephyrs of the 
northern hem — Mr. Washington a coward ! Lock- 
jawed be the mouth that spoke it 1 Why, sir, look at 
him at Lundy's Lane — look at him at Tippecanoe — look 
at him at Waterloo, and, sir, look at him at New h'leansl 
Did he display cowardice thar, sir, or at any of the 
thousand similar battles that he font — and 

Hon. Felix Garrote [interrupting^. — Mr. Wash- 
ington never fit the battle of New ^rleans — he wasn't 
thar,' sir ; he'd been dead two years and seving months 
and thirty-one days afore that battle was fit, so he had. 
Ue never font that battle ! 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 307 

Mr. Slabside. — "Who did fight the battle of Xew 
^T-leans ? 

Hon. Felix G-arrote. — If 3-011 will jist take the 
trouble to refer to Josephiis, or read Benjamin Frank- 
ling's History of the Crimean and Black Hawk wars, 
30U will thar find, Mr. President, that Gen. Bore-your- 
gourd fit the battle of New h'leans. 

Mr. Slabside. — I thank my ver}- larned friend, not 
only for interruptin' me, but more particularly for his 
corrections, in which he has showed himself totally io-- 
norant of history, men and things. 

I contend, notwithstanding the gentleman's assertion 
to the contrary, that Mr. Washington not only fit at the 
battle of New h^leans, but that he is alive now, sir. 1 
have only to pint you, Mr. President, and gentlemen of 
this here Lyceum, to his quiet and retired home at San- 
doval, on the banks of the Tombigbee river, in the 
state of Missouri, whar he now resides conscious of his 
private worth, and of the great and brilliant sarvice he 
has rendered his country, and in the enjo3'ment of 
those distinguished honors heaped upon his grateful 
brow b}^ his aged countrymen ; and allow me to call the 
attention of my yerj learned opponement, that Gen. 
Boregard was not at the battle of New h^leans. He 
couldn't have font that battle. He was dead, sir ! 

Yes, Mr. President, if 3'ou will have the patience to 
turn and look over Horace Greeley's History of the 
Kansas Hymn Book war, ^'■ou will there learn that Gen. 
Bo-re-gurd and Col. Buchanan, at the head of an army 
of negroes, made a desperate charge upon Mason's and 
Dixie's ly'in; and they've been dead ever since ! ! 

^Immense sensation among the Egyptians, during 
which the president pronounced the debate closed, 
and introduced the speakers to the audience. 
Great shaking of hands.'} 



808 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



THE WIDOW MUGGINS. HER OPINIONS OF 
COOKS, SUITORS, AND HUSBANDS. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Mrs. Muggins, a widow. 
Cousin Hannah Jane. 
Betty, Mrs. Muggins' cook. 



Scene. — A room in Mrs. Muggins^ house. Cousin Han- 
nah Jane sewing. 

Mrs. M. [without]. — Betty, what in the world are you 
doing ? Why don't you hurry up with your work. I'll 
declare to gracious, you are the slowest creature I ever 
saw in all my born days. 

Betty [without']. — Why, Mrs. Muggins, I'm hurryin' 
jest as fast as I can. 

Mrs. M. — Oh, Betty ! yo're very slow, very slow. 
[Enter Mrs. M., who sits down and commences 
knitting.] 

Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, a body has a sight 
of troulle with the cooks a body has to hire now- 
a-da3^s. When I was a young worpan, the servant- 
girls did a great deal better than they do now, cousin 
Han nail Jane. 

C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, in our young days, 
the servants were of some account. 

Mrs. M. — Yes, that they were, cousin Hannah Jane. 
They didn't break a bowl or a pitcher every other day, 
as most of 'cm do now ; and they were not afraid to 
work. I tell you, the way my mother's servants 
worked ! oh, it was a sight ! Them was the days when 
a-body could get the worth of a-body's money out of a 
hired girl, cousin Hannah Jane 

C. H, J. — Yes, the servants earned their wages then. 

Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, you don't know how 
much trouble I have had with the shiftless, trifling 
cooks I've had this year. Would you believe it, cousin 
Hannah Jane? I've had as many as eight cooks since 
the 1st of January. 

C. H. J. — Sakes a-live I you don't say so ' 
[Enter Betty.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 309 

Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want them taters 
baked or biled ? 

Mrs. M.— Biled, Betty, biled I 

Betty. — Yes, marm. [_Going out.'] 

Mrs. M. {calling']. — Betty I 

Betty [returning]. — Well, 

Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said hiled ! 

Betty. — Yes, marm. [Exit.] 

Mrs. M. — I always am obleeged to tell Betty twice 
over, before she understands me, cousin Hannah Jane. 
But Betty does a sight better than most of the other 
servants I've had, cousin Hannah Jane ; she don't break 
as many things, and she's a heap neater about her work 
than most of 'em were, cousin Hannah Jane. Then 
she's tolerable industrious, only she's so slow ; that's her 
wust fault, cousin Hannah Jane. Now the fust cook I 
had, the arl^' part of the year, was the awfulest laziest, 
sleep3'-headedest thing you ever saw, cousin Hannah 
Jane. Wh}^ she never had breakfast ready before ten 
o'clock, cousin Hannah Jane. You know I couldn't 
put up with that, cousin Hannah Jane. So I sent her 
away. 

C. H. J. — That was right. I'd have done so, too, 
cousin Jemima. 

Mrs. M.— Well, my next cook wasn't any better than 
the fust, cousin Hannah Jane. Her name was Jane 
Short. She was a awful slovenlj", untid}^ critter. She 
didn't keep herself clean, cousin Hannah Jane. She 
would often git breakfast without washing her face or 
combin' her hair, cousin Hannah Jane. 

[Cousin Hannah Jane holds up her hands in 
amazement.] 

C. H. J. — Goodness, mercy, did I ever! 
Mrs. M. — It's a fact, cousin Hannah Jane, true as my 
name's Jemima Muggins. Cousin Hannah Jane. 
Wasn't it awt'ui f 

[ Cousin Hannah Jane again holds up her hands in 
amazement.] 

C. H. J.— Oh, horrid ! 

Mrs M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Muggins 
[Enter Betty.] 



810 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want tliem eggs fried 
or biled. 

Mrs. M. — Biled, Betty, biled I 

Betty [going^. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M.— Betty I 

Betty [^returning"]. — Well. 

Mrs. M. — Don't forgit, Betty, biled; recollect Bett}'. 

Betty. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — My next cook was an awful proud thing, 
<*ousin Hannah Jane, especially for a servant-girl. Her 
name was Mary Toots. She would sometimes wash 
her face in butter-milk to make it white, and then pour 
the butter-milk in the pitcher, and put it on the table 
for me and my niece Peggy Ann to drink, cousin Han- 
nah Jane. 

C. H. J. [^again raising her hands in wonder and dis- 
gust']. — Sakes a mercy 1 Did I ever? 

Mrs. M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Muggins. 
\_Enter Betty. '\ 

Betty. — How many eggs must I use in makin' them 
pan-cakes ? 

Mrs. M. — Six, Betty, six! 

Betty \_going~\. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Betty ! \_BeUy returns.'] 

Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said six. 

Betty. — Yes, marm. \^Exit.'] 

Mrs. M. — My fourth cook was too fond of gaddin' 
about, cousin Hannah Jane. I soon got rid of her. 
My fifth cook had the awfulest temper you ever sav/ in 
your life, cousin Hannah Jane. What do you think, 
cousin Hannah Jane ; she broke a wliole set of cups and 
sassers, because I said she had red hair. 

C. H. J. [_raising her hands']. — Oh, horrid! 

Mrs. M, — Don't that beat any thing you ever heerd 
on, cousin Hannah Jane ? 

C. H. J. — Oh, sakes a' mercy ! it was awful ! 

Mrs. M. — My sixth cook was too fond of reading 
books, cousin Hannah Jane. You know it wont do fer 
a servant-girl to be too fond of readin'. She didn't 
suit me. M3' seventh [the last one before Betty'], I sent 
away, because ehe made fun of my church, and you 
know I wo/ldu't stand that, cousin Hannah Jane. So 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 311 

I soon gave her leave of absence, as people sa^^ So you 
see, Betty is my eighth cook this year. As I said be- 
fore, she does a heap better than any of the others, but 
still she has a heap of faults, cousin Hannah Jane ; but 
the wust one she's got, is she's so slow, so pokin\ Now 
yoa might think I am hard to please, cousin Hannah 
Jane, Lnt I aint. Not a bit. If a servant will try and 
come any ways near doin- right, I am satisfied, cousin 
Haunah Jane. You know I have a very mild temper, 
cousin Hannah Jane. 

C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, no one has a better 
disposition than 3'ou have. \_Enter Betty.'] 

Betty. — How much sugar shall I put in the rice- 
puddin', Mrs. Muggins ? 

Mrs. M. — Three ounces of sugar to four ounces of 
rice, Betty. Put in four eggs, Betty; two ounces 
of butter, melted in a tea-cup full of cream — put in a 
piece of lemon peel, Betty. 

Betty \_going']. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Betty ! iBetty returns.'] Bemembev to put 
in the lemon peel. 

Betty. — Yes, marm. ' 

Mrs. M. — Xow, Betty, aint a bad sort of a girl. 
She'd do tolerable well, if she wasn't so slow. Betty is 
very fond of my niece, Peggy Ann ; she'll do almost 
any thing for her. Wiiat do 3'ou think, cousin Hannah 
Jane, Jake Stubbins, the tooth doctor, has been comin' 
to see Peggy Ann every Sunday night for the last six 
months and yet he has never axed her to have him. Now, 
I'm a goin' to put a stop to this here kind of work. If he 
don't ax her to marry him the very next time he comes, 
I'll give him to understand his company isn't wanted 
here any longer. What's the use of comin', and comin', 
and comin' from June to etarnity, and never sayin' 
nothin' about marryin', cousin Hannah Jane ; besides 
tliat, he often comes before supper-time, in fact, nearly 
always. Now, I say it's a shame to be a livin' otf of a 
bod}'' that way, and then not say a word to the gal 
a])out marryin'. It's too bad, cousin Hannah Jane, 
too bad. 

C. H. J. — Yes, that's so, cousin Jemima. I wouldn't 
stand it neither. 



812 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. M. — "N'ow, Jake Stubbins, jest for all the world 
puts me in mind of the fellows that used to come to my 
Uncle Timothy's. Uncle Timothy had eight grown 
gals; and on Sunday afternoon and Sunday night, it 
was a sight to see the way) the young men and the old 
Imchelors and widowers did gather in ! oh, it was awful 
And what do you think, cousin Hannah Jane, but one 
out of the eight ever married, although they had more 
beaus than you could shake a stick at. \_Enter Betty.'] 

Betty. — What's your way of makin' plum-cakes, 
Mrs. Muggins ? 

Mrs. M. — Take two quarts of fine flour, Betty, and a 
pound of dry loaf sugar. With your plums, use 
half a pound of raisins, a quarter of an ounce of cloves, 
half a pound of almonds, a grated nutmeg, twelve eggs, 
and a little brandy. 

Betty [^going']. — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Betty ! IBetty returns.'] Mind to put in 
the brandy. 

Betty.-— Yes, marm. 

Mrs. M. — Well, cousin Hannah Jane, I'm a lone 
widder, and I sometimes think I had better take a com- 
panion, but I'm afraid I can never meet with such another 
dear, good man, as poor Mr. Muggins was ; oh, he was 
sich a dear, good soul ! He was so keerful of me, 
cousin Hannah Jane. He was always afraid I would 
injure my health by hard work, cousin Hannah Jane. 
He would always want to do his own work and mine 
too, cousin Hannah Jane. Oh, no ! I will never see a 
man like my poor husband ! Oh, Obadiah Muggins 1 
It's been twelve years since the dear, good soul went to 
the kingdom, cousin Hannah Jane. [Sighs.] My 
friends often tell me I ought to take another companion, 
cousin Hannah Jane, and I have plenty of chances, 
plenty of 'em, cousin Hannah Jane, but I'm not easily 
suited, cousin Hannah Jane. Now, I could get old man 
"Wiggins jest as easy as slippin' on ice ; but the old 
critter has sort of curious ways that I don't like much. 
Then there's Uriah Thompson ; I could git him, but he 
has too many children. Then there's old Deacon I)oo- 
little; I know I could get him, but he's too sharp and 
close-listed, he'd want to handle more of my money 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOflUES. 813 

than I'd care about letting him have, and then we'd have 
to quarrel. Then there's Dan Dempster, he's nearly dyin'^ 
to marr}' me, but he's sich a rank pisin copperhead, and 
1 hate them. Then there's plenty of others I could 
git, cousin Hannah Jane, but I don't know any one as 
reminds me of poor Obadiah what's dead and gone to 
the kingdom. Well, cousin Hannah Jane, suppose we 
go into Peggy Ann's room and persuade her to play for 
us on the pyanner. She plays so nice. I do love to hear 
her sins; that sweet sono- " There's three little kittinsis 
who have lost their mittins !" \_Singing fieai^d icithout.'] 
Jest listen, she's a siugin' now; come along, cousin 
Hannah Jane, come along. \_Exit. Curtain falls.l 



MARRYmG FOR MONET. 

CHARACTERS. 

Harry Brown. Egbert Bruce. Eliza Greklt 



Scene 1. — A room in Mrs. Whitens boarding-house. 

Brown [^looting in his pocket-book']. — Onh^ five dollars 
in my pocket, and ten dollars due for board. Aint I in 
a pretty fix ? I must raise the wind somehow ; that's 
certain ; but the query is, how am I to do it ? Beside 
my board bill I have sundr}^ other little bills that ought 
to be squared up. I really don't know why it is, but as 
soon as I get out of money every bod}^ commences duu- 
ning me. 

Bruce louiside]. — Hello, Brown ! 

Brown. — Hello yourself! 

Bruce. — Will 3^ou let a fellow come in ? 

Brown. — Come in, of course, and don't stand there 
hallooing at a fellow when he's in trouble. Come in right 
away ; I want to talk with you. 

[Unter Robert Bruce.'] 

Bruce. — You realh^ want to talk to me, do you ; 
W'ie^ll, go ahead. You're talking nearly all the time. If 
y(Mi don't havQ any one to talk to, you talk to yourself 



814 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

I think you were indulging in that pastime when 1 came 
to the door. 

Brown. — Well, that's nothing. Somebody has said 
that all great men talk to themselves, and I believe it's 
a fact. But, Bob, I wish it to be distinctly understood 
that I do not consider myself a great man, but perhaps 
I will be a great man some day. There's one thing cer- 
tain. Bob, I've got a great load of trouble to bear, and 
the question naturally arises, how am I going to rid my- 
self of that trouble ; how am I going to pitch the great 
load from off my shoulders, and stand once more in the 
free light of day a relieved man, a free man, an untram- 
meled man — a man who feels that a great load has been 
jerked from off his shoulders^ — a man that — ah — ahem. 
[Pauses.'] 

Bruce. — Well, that's good I go on. 

Brown. — Bob, are you laughing at me ? Come now, 
that wont do. Would you laugh at one who was floun- 
dering in the mud of despondency ? Would you let a 
smile wreathe your lips when a fellow -being was in 
trouble? Answer me. Bob. As Shakspeare says, "Let 
me not burst in ignorance." 

Bruce. — No, I wouldn't. How could I laugh at a man 
when his misery makes him so very eloquent ? I couldn't 
do it, indeed. But, Harry, what's the matter now? 
What new trouble have you got into ? 

Brown. — I haven't got into any new trouble. I'm in 
the same old trouble — want of money. 

Bruce. — Oh, is that all? I can lend you an X, if that 
will get you through. 

Brown. — Bob, you're a good old fellow, but I can't 
take any thing more from you until, 1 have squared off 
the old account. You know I owe you a ten now. 

Bruce. — Yes, I know ; but you needn't trouble your-. 
self on that score. I can wait. By-the-way, Harry, 
have you seen the new boarder yet? , 

Brown. — No ; who is he ? 

Bruce. — Who is she, you mean. Her name's Eliza 
Greely. 

Brown. — A relative of Horace, is she ? 

Bruce. — Can't say, hideed. 

Beown. — Well, is she pretty ? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 815 

Bruce. — No, not killingly beautiful. Wont smash 
many hearts, I judge. 

Brown. — One more question, Bob. Is she rich ? 

Bruce. — She is. She told Mrs., White she had a few 
thousands, and asked her where she had better invest. 

Brown. — Good ! hurrah I I'll marry her. 

Bruce. — Ha ! ha ! Wait until you see her before you 
get excited. And then remember that it takes two to 
make a bargain. Remember, also, 

"It's easier far to hke a g-irl, 
Than to make a girl hke you." 

Brown. — Well, I'll do my best any how ; but stop, is 
ehe young ? 

Bruce. — About your own age, I should say, perhaps 
younger. 

Brown. — ^Well, that's good so far. Now let's see, how 
am I to manage? I'll get an introduction to her to- 
night, of course. 

Bruce. — Oh ! of course you will. And then what next ? 
Will you propose before you go to bed ? 

Brown. — No, Bob, that would be rushing things. No, 
no ; I'll take time and work carefully. As old Hopkins 
used to say, *' I'll make haste slowly." 

Bruce. — And perhaps in the meantime you'll have the 
pleasure of seeing the fair lady carried off by some fel- 
low who makes haste fastly. 

Brown. — I'll be on the lookout for all such fellows. 

Bruce. — Perhaps the lady is engaged. 

Brown. — Well, to be sure. [ With a puzzled air.'\ I 
never thought of that ; but if she is, I'll find out before 
I ask the momentous question. I say. Bob, wouldn't 
you enter the ring yourself if it wasn't for your darling- 
little Alice ? 

Bruce. — I might ; I don't know ; wiser men have 
done more foolish things. 

Brown. — AVell, it's all arranged ! I'll marry the new 
boarder, and then with our few thousands in our pockets 
we'll laugh at poverty. We'll "walk the water like a 
thing of life," or, rather, like two things of life. We'll 
live in a big house, and have a coach, and servants, and 
horses, and every thing we want. In short, we'll be 



816 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

as happy as the clay is long. I wish it was night. I am 
anxious for the introduction. Roll swiftly round ye wheels 
of time. Make every thing scatter, and bring the night 
with all possible speed. I'm in haste. I'm all in a 
shiver of expectation and excitement. 

Bruce. — Keep cool, Harry ; the night will come soon 
enough. I must be off now, but before I go allow me 
to wish 3^ou success in your pursuit of a wife with golden 
charms. \_Exit Robert.'] 

Broavn. — I believe I'm going to make a raise at last. 
Now, if brother Tom was here, and knew all, he would 
give me a regular scolding for attempting to rush head- 
long into matrimony. But Tom is too slow and too 
careful. There's no use in courting a girl a year, nor 
half a year, nor two months. It's all nonsense ; if a man 
likes a girl, and the girl likes him, they'll know it before 
two days. I believe in rushing right ahead, and never 
stopping to think. This stopping to think has ruined 
many a man, and spoiled thousands of good matches. 
Now, if this new boarder isn't engaged, I'll lay a wager 
she'll be mine before three months ; I'm going to be in 
a hurry ; I'm going to rush things; she's got the tin, and 
that's what I'm after. Wont Tom open his eyes wide w)ien 
he hears that I'm married? But wont he open his eyes 
very wide when he hears that I'm living in a brown-stone, 
front ? But I can't sit here ; it's impossible for me to stay 
hereuntil supper-time ; J must go out and walk the streets 
until nightfall ; my impatience will not let me be quiet. 
\^Gets up and takes his hat.'] Good-by poverty, and hur- 
rah for the new boarder and her thousands of dollars 
lExit Harry Brown.] 

\_Curtain Falls.] 

Scene 2. — A room in Mrs Whitens boarding-house. 
Harry Brown discovered. 
Brown. — I'm married, thank fortune, I'm married at 
last. My wife, although not the most beautiful woman 
in the world, is, I think, a good sort of a woman. She 
will be liberal ; I know she will ; she will shell out the 
dollars as though they were cents ; there's one thing 
mystifies me a little ; I think she might have bought 
herself a grander outfit ; her bonnet might have been just 



SCHOOLDAY 11TAL0GUE5. 817 

a little better. But then she looked we 1 In i^, and I sup- 
pose she understands the mysteries of dressing better 
than I do. Now, there's some women who look a thou- 
sand times better in calico than they do in silk, and I 
have no doubt Eliza is one of that number. I've been 
married two days now, and I think it is about time I 
was finding out just exactly how many thousands she 
has. It's a delicate matter to talk on, but then I neecln t 
care; the knot is tied and can't be severed. Hello! 
here comes my wife now. My wife ! how funny that 
sounds I 

\_Enter Eliza.'\ 

Eliza. — "Well, ducky, not gone out yet, I see. 

Brown. — No, m}?- little darling, I aint gone out yet. 
Fact is, 'Liza, I don't like to be away very long from 3^ou. 

Eliza. — Don't you. Brownie dear ? Ah, you'll get 
over that by and by. 

Brown. — No, Eliza ; I don't think I will. I may 
even say I am sure I will not. I am convinced that 
there is, away down in my heart of hearts, a long, strong, 
broad, deep flame of love, that will blaze on and blaze 
on through countless nights of waking and days of woe. 
There rolls not a billow of sorrow nor salt water that 
can extinguish that flame. That flame will burn as long 
as — yes, Eliza, that flame will burn as long as — ahem — 
yes, Eliza 

Eliza. — Is there any thing the matter with you, 
Brownie, dear? 

Brown. — No, Eliza, nothing ; I was only soaring. But 
to come to business, wifey tifey, where is your money 
deposited ? 

Eliza. — M}^ money ! ha ! ha ! That's good ! Brownie 
dear, I haven't ten dollars to my name. 

Brown. — Ah ! I see ; a good joke, Eliza ; a good joke 
indeed. You want to make me believe for a little while 
that you haven't any money, and then tell me all 
at once what an awful pile you have. But don't do it, 
Eliza ; the news would be too good ; I couldn't bear it; 
reason might totter and throw herself. 

Eliza. — Brownie, \'ou are talking kind of shallow this 
ip-^rning. Is there anything the matter with your head ? 

Brown.- ^No, ducky, nothing; but do tell me just 



318 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

how many thousand dollars you have, and where it is 
deposited. 

Eliza. — I told 3^ou before, and I tell you again, T 
haven't ten dollars to my name. There's my port-mon- 
nie. \_Hands it.'\ Examine for yourself. It contains 
every cent of my money. 

Brown. — Great Constan 

Eliza. — Stop, Brownie ; don't swear. Did you think 
I was wealthy ? 

Brown. — To be sure I did. Didn't you tell Mrs. 
White you had a few thousand ? 

Eliza, — I believe I did say something of that kind ; 
but I meant a few thousand cents. Of course I didn't 
say it to lead any person to believe I was wealthy. 

Brown. — Oh, I'm sold. I'm a wretched man I 

Eliza. — No, you ain't, Brownie, dear. [_Puts her 
arms around his neck.'] Cheer up ; perhaps you'll find 
I'm worth more than a few thousand dollars. 

Brown. — Eliza, I believe you are right. I believe I 
have found a treasure, but not the kind of a treasure I 
expected. Anyhow, the knot is tied, and we may as well 
make the best of a bad arrangement; not saying at all, 
duckey tifey, that it is a bad arrangement. Ob, no ; not 
at all. 

Eliza. — No, no ; it isn't a bad arrangement, Brownie 
dear. We'll get along swimmingl3^ I know we will. 

Brown. — Yes, we'll get along swimmingly ; at least I 
hope we will. But still I think it is a bad arrangement 
to marry in haste and repent at leisure. 
[ Curtain falls.] 



THE CONFLICT. 



Scene. — William Thoughtful, a young man who is form^ 
ing new resolutions and plans on New Yearns day, is 
seated in a room, alone, thinking aloud. 

Thoughtful. — This day I wish to begin life anew. 
What is my future destiny? Shall I continue to climb 
tlie " Hill of Science," as I trust I have begun, till I 
reach the summit, and all the world reverence the name 
of Thoughtful ? Or, shall I still remain near my own 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 819 

loved home, toiling with willing hands to gain the glit- 
tering gold ? not for mere show, but that I might minis- 
ter to the loving ones who have, by example and care, 
made me what I am ! Oh ! that the future was not a 
sealed book to me ! If some good fairy would only 
have the kindness to point out the path which would be 
the safest for me to pursue ! 

\_Enter Vanity. A young girl gaily dressed; dis- 
playing much gold and jewels.Ji 

Yanity. — Beautiful creature ! Thy brow is clothed 
with thought. How much more charming in the ej^es 
of all, must one be, the expression of whose face shows 
that he thinks and feels, than one whose only expression 
is love for the world and its pleasures. Listen to me ! 
You have talents, great talents ; with a little exertion 
you might gain gold enough to dress with all the pomp 
and splendor of a prince. The wealthiest would bow to 
you, and nothing would be lacking to complete your 
happiness. Your personal beauty, wealth, and towering 
mind would attract all the world, even from the least to 
the greatest. 

Thoughtful.— I think I know who thou art : is not 
Yanit^'- thy name ? Surely, no honest person is ashamed 
of nis name ? 

Yanity. — Oh, no, indeed ! Yanity would advise thee 
to do nothing that would really benefit thee ; but / 
would have thee improve thy mind, and attain to great- 
ness. Oh, follow my advice I Think of the enjoyment 
to be derived from being one to whom every one will 
bow and render praise. 

Thoughtful. — I know theel Yanity ts thy name! 
Are we to live merely for our own selfish enjoyment ? 
Thou hast been trying to deceive me ; but I understand 
thy wiles. Retire from my presence ! I hope I will not 
harbor Vanity. 

Yanity [^retires, murmuring']. — I thought he would 
not know me. 

Thoughtful. — There, I have vanquished one enem}' ! 

Oh ! that I might know equally well all who, with their 

fla.ttering words, would lure me from the path of duty. 

[^Enter Mammon. A hoy represented as an old 

man, rather plainly dressed.] 



320 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mammon. — Listen to me, and I will give thee advice 
worth more than that of any other being. Hast thou 
not heard of me — of my wealth ? M}^ coffers are filled 
to the brim! It will be well for thee to do as I have 
done. I will tell thee how to gain this great amount of 
treasure Only follow my advice, and thou shalt be 
happy I 

Thoughtful. — Who art thou that advisest me ? One 
who really seeks my good, or art tliou trying to deceive 
me ? But speak on ; 1 would learn more of thy char- 
acter. 

Mammon. — I will speak on till thou knowest cer- 
tainly that I would do thee good. Dost thou not know 
that gold is a blessing ? See here ! [ Taking a handful of 
shining metal from his pocket.'] See this gold and silver ! 
Here is enough to procure comforts for thine aged pa- 
rents that would last them all their lives ; and yet, this 
is not a hundredth part of what I possess. Do as I 
have done, and thou shalt not only gain enough to make 
thy parents .comfortable and happy, but can aid many 
poor and stricken ones. I would not have thee restricted 
to any one particular employment ; choose whatever you 
like; only remember that it is your duty to gain gold ! 
For, how could the poor, the benighted, and the suffer- 
ing sick ones who can not help themselves be benefited 
if there was not some able as well as willing hand to 
help them ? Listen to the call of the numerous benevo- 
lent societies all over our land ! Oli, give us gold ! more 
gold to send bibles to the heathen who have dwelt in 
darl^ness all their lives. Or, how could we ol)ey tlie 
divine command — " Go ye into all the world and preach 
the Gospel," if it were not for gold ? Thou mightest 
choose to be a minister of the gospel ; but while seeking 
to do good be careful not to offend your wealtliy par- 
ishioners ; for, if you should gain their ill-will, they 
might refuse to part with any of their precious gold ; 
then your benevolent plans would be thwarted. With- 
out this valuable treasure, you could not soothe the 
wailing cry for help, which is being sent np from all 
over the face of our globe. Or, if you should choose to 
be a physician, and be called to attend some wealthj^ 
(»atient for the sake of obtaining gold, with which you 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 321 

might minister to the wants of the poor and needy, it 
would be better not to be in too much haste to have 
him recover, so that he would no longer need your ser- 
vices. Or, if 3^ou should choose to be a merchant, be 
s;ire and let thy motto be gold. Obtain all thou canst 
1 n- an article, if the purchaser does not know that he 
'.an buy it for less at other places ; that is his business, 
not thine. [ Winking slyly.'] Get all thou canst, for 
how much good couldst thou do, if thou only possessed 
» great amount of gold. 

\_Enter Truth, a hoy with a helmet and shield, hear- 
ing a hanner wreathed with evergreens, and hav- 
ing the word. Truth, inscribed upon it.] 

Truth [waving his hanner]. — Is gold to be bought at 
the expense of Truth, Justice, or Honesty ? 

Mammon \_ frowning upon Truth]. — And who art 
thou ? to intrude upon us, when I have been advising 
my good friend Thoughtful ? 

Truth. — -One who loves justice, and will never, no 
never, see one who loves it as well as I do, deceived by 
thy flattering words ! [ Turning to Thoughtful.] Friend 
Thoughtful, didst thou not know him ? Although he would 
gladly make it seem to thee that it is thy duty to wrench 
the glittering treasure from thy fellow men, canst thou 
not see that he would have thee use deceit and fraud in 
every possible way? Oh, consider! before resolving 
to follow his advice ! 

Thoughtful [rising hastily to his feet, and grasping 
the hand of Truth]. — Oh! my good friend, Truth! 
Words can not express my thanks to thee, for coming 
just in time to prevent my following this deceitftil 
Mammon ! I know him now, and ought to have known 
him before ; but his seemingly benevolent purpose 
blinded me. But from henceforth, honesty will be my 
first motto, and 

Mammon. — Far be it from me to advise thee to l)e 
dishonest! But gold is a blessing, and we could never 
minister to the wants of the poor and needy without it. 

Truth. — Oh, misguided Mammon! goto your gilded 

cell, and ponder on the inconsistency of your statement ! 

What less is it than dishonesty, to receive more than 

you know an artirle is worth from an unsuspecting cus- 

21 



322 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

tomer ? .Of, as in the case of a physician, to knowingly 
and wilfully prevent your patient from recovering ? 
Nay, worse than that, not only wrongfully obtaining 
his gold, but depriving him of his health ; and to whom 
is not health dearer than gold ? 

Mammon [walks slowly away, muttering']. — I am van- 
quished I 

Thoughtful. — Oh, Truth ! wilt thou ever be my 
champion, and open my eyes to all deceit? 

Truth. — If thou wilt receive and ever acknowledge 
me as thy friend, most certainly I will. I would gladly 
use my weapons to defend all ; but those who will not 
listen to me, I can not aid. 

[^Enter Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility ; 
each hears a banner with her name inscribed upo7i 
it. Benevolence, a large girl, dressed in a purple 
or drab dress, and a large cloak of some dark ma- 
terial thrown over her shoulders, enters first : she 
is followed by Earnestness, who has on a scarlet 
dress, trimmed with evergreens, and a wreath of 
the same about her head. Lastly, Humility, a 
little girl dressed in white, enters. They take 
their places upon the stage, and wave their ban- 
ners.'] 
Benevolence. — Deceptive Mammon would have thee 
think that I follow in his footsteps I But true Benevo- 
lence follows Truth. Thou hast chosen him as thy 
champion, wilt thou accept my friendship ? [^She smil- 
ingly extends her hand ; he takes it.] 
Thoughtful. — Most gladly, I will! 
Earnestness. — Thou hast chosen Benevolence as thy 
friend. I would make thee more earnest in every good 
work I \_Thoughtful clasps her hand.] 

Thoughtful. — Most thankful am I for thy friendship. 
Humility. — Thou hast vanquished Vanity, would st 
thou have Humility instead ? \_He clasps her hand also.] 
Thoughtful. — Ah, yes 1 With Truth for my cham- 
pion, Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility for my 
friends, I trust I shall conquer all my enemies. How 
sad if I had chosen Mammon and Yanity instead I I 
now rejrard them as deadly foes. 

[ Curtain falls.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 323 

LIFE: A SCHOOL SCENE. 
CHARACTEES. 

"Pleasure. Beauty. Wealth. Fame- Pistt, 



Dress: Plkasure. — White dress, looped with flowers ; covered 
with butterflies, spangles of gold, etc. Wreath of flowers on 
her head. Flowers on bosom. 

Bevuty. — The same as Pleasure, nearly. 

Wealth. — Rich black silk, with trail. Rings, pins, bracelets, 
chains, jewels, etc, in profusion. Crown of black silk or velvet, 
with half moon and stars of gold. Black vail covered with 
gold stars flowing back from crown. 

Fame. — Plain dress of some dark stuff. Plain linen collar 
and cuffs. Collar fastened with a single brilliant gem. Hair 
done back from forehead. 

Piety. — Pure white, with a single rose-bud on bosom. 

Position on Stage. — Pleasure enters first, from left of stage ; 
speaks ce?i^er; takes place right. Beauty enters W^Ti^, takes 
place and speaks left. Wealth enters left, speaks ce?;^er, takes 
place riglit. Fame enters right, takes place and speaks left. 
Piety enters, takes place and speaks center — thus forming a 
beautiful tableau. * 



Pleasure lEnter lightly, trilling a gay song. Stops 
singing and says :] — 
Oh, life to me is a thing of pleasure ! 
For sorrow and care I find no leisure. 
Like a butterfly gay with gaudy wings — 
Or like a birdling wild that trills and sings, 
I'll away from bower to bowser, 
Tasting the sweets of every flower, 
Singing my wild, glad measure ; — 
Ever seeking some new pleasure. 

My friends shall be 

All like me, 

Giddy and gay 

The live long day. 

We have but one life to live — so the records say, 
Let us drink and b^ merry while we may: 
With rich, red wines our glasses we'll till, 
W^ith jest and with laugh dall care we'll kill. 



324 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Soft, sensuous music causes my bosom to beat, 

Away, away, to its time, ye restless feet. 

Time to repent when death draws nigh : — 

Till then, wild heart, cause me not a sigh. 

Life to me is a song of pleasure — 

Keep step, wayward feet, to its changeful measuie. 

Beauty : — 

Sister, thou dost live for pleasure: 
In beauty I find the rarest treasure ; 
You would live thoughtless and gay ; 
I would be a beauty fair as the day ; 
I would have features faultless and fair 
With no trace of frailty ling'ring there : 
I would have a form like that of a queen — 
Yes, far more lovely than mortal has seen, 
Then I'd be the wonder of all that should see — 
Oh, that would be pleasure if pleasure there be I 

Wealth : — 

Foolish things ! Prate of beauty and pleasure I 

I would have coffers crammed with treasure. 

What beauty is there like that of gold ? — 

E'en though it does make the heart stony and cold I 

What earthly pleasure like that to feel 

Hands full of gold, till senses reel? 

Oh, give me jewels, sparkling and bright. 

That shame the stars which fill the night. 

Bring me diamonds from the mine, — 

Bring me pearls from ocean's brine ; 

Fill m}^ houses with all that there be 

Of what's costly and rare from over the sea. 

Then I'll not care for Old Time as he tlies. 

When with gold and with jewels I can feast mj eyes. 

Fame : — 

Ye groveling earth-worms with wishes vain ! 

I seek for that which few may obtain. 

What pleasure i^ there in a cup of wine ? 

Who years from now will care for that form divine ? 

And none but a sordid, soulless mind 

In the chink of gold would a pleasure find. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 325 

Care ye not for something more high ? 

That something which your gold can nevtr buy? 

Have ye no longings in 3'onr inmost self 

Other than those for pleasure and pelf? 

I would have mine a proud, immortal name, 

Which shall for ever live in Fame ! 

I'lETY: — 

I would have life to me 

Just what our Father designed it should be. 

True wisdom 111 seek 

Ever to guide me when I'm weak. 

In doing His will my pleasure I'll find ; 

To what seemeth Him good, I'll be resigned. 

My treasure I'll seek to la}- up above, 

In the Better-land, where God dwells, who is l(yve. 

[^Music, while the curtain slowly falls.'] 



BEN, THE ORPHAN BOY; OR, "HONESTY IS 
THE BEST POLICY" 

CHARACTERS. 

Ben Wilson, Martha Raymond. Mr. Holland. 
Mrs. Holland. Servant. 



Scene 1. — A street, Martha Raymond, a keeper of a 
fruit stand, and Ben Wilson discovered. 

Ben. — How nice the windows look this evening ; I 
wish I was rich and could buy some of the pretty 
things I see. But if I could but get enough to eat and 
a good fire to stay by at night, I would be satisfied. 
But I can not. I am compelled to wander through the 
streets and can get nothing but what I beg from the 
passers-by. 

Martha. — Are you hungry now, Ben ? 

Ben. — Yes, very hungry ; I have had nothing to eat 
to-day. Dave sent me out this morning without a 



826 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

mouthful to eat before I started, and would have 
whipped me, too, if 1 had not run away. And now I 
am afraid to go back again. 

Martha. — Here, Ben [hands cakes'\, you shall not 
want for something to eat as long as I have any thing 
to give 3'ou. I have very hard getting along, but am 
a little better off than you. I have stood here all this 
cold, dreary day, and have only sold a half dollar's Avorth 
yet. My poor mother is sick at home, and if things do 
not turn out better, I shall soon be as badly off as you. 

Ben. — Oh, how good that cake is ! 

Martha. — Here's a couple more, Ben. I know you 
are hungry. We are poor, but God will provide for us 
if we but trust in him and are honest and upright. 

Ben {looking off~\. — Do you see that fine lady and 
gentleman getting into that carriage? Arn't they 
grand ? Martha, why is it that some people are allowed 
to be so rich and comfortable, while others are so poor 
and miserable ? 

Martha. — I can not tell, Ben. God's ways are dark 
and past finding out. It seems hard that it should be 
so, but if it were not right it would not be. We must 
trust in the Lord and bear all without murmuring. 
{Ben darts out and returns bearing a large pocket-book. 1^ 

Ben. — Look, Martha! See ! I've found a great big 
pocket-book, and I guess it's chuck full of money. 
{Opens it.2 Oh, see what a lot of gold pieces ! 

Martha. — Put it in your pocket — quick, Ben I It is 
not safe for you to be displaying it on the street. {Ben 
puts it away."] Come here, Ben. Do you know who 
lost the pocket-book ? 

Ben. — I guess it was that fine lady or gentleman who 
came out of the store and got into the carriage. 

Martha. — Do 3^ou know who they are ? 

Ben.— No I 

Martha. — It is Mr. Holland and his wife ; they are 
very wealthy. But what are you going to do with the 
money ? 

Ben.— Going to keep it, of course, and buy lots of 
good things to eat. But, I'm going to give you half 
of it, so that you can get the medicine for your mother 
and buy a whole heap of coal. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 827 

Martha. — Is the money 3^onrs, Ben ? 

Ben. — Yes — well — I don't know. I found it and 
those people are rich folks, and, you know, they don't 
need it. 

Martha. — Ben, you would be doing very wrong to 
keep this money. It would be as bad to keep the 
mone}^ belonging, as it does, to a rich man, as it would 
be to keep it, if it belonged to a poor man. It would 
not be honest to keep it ; and let me advise you to 
return it immediately. 

Ben. — Oh, how can I ? Just think how I am suffering 
every day for something to eat and for clothes to wear ; 
and think of your mother, who is lying sick and in need 
of assistance. The man is rich and will never miss the 
money. Oughtn't I to keep it ? 

Martha. — IS'o, Ben ; you ought not. I know you 
suffer for want of bread and clothes and a comfortable 
home ; but trust in the Lord and be honest, and all 
will yet be well. 

Ben. — Well, I felt like a rich man a few minutes ago, 
but it is all gone now. I will take your advice, Martha, 
for 3^ou have always been kind to me, and I know you 
always do right. If you will tell me where the gentle- 
man lives, I will take the money to him right away. 

Martha. — He lives at No. 28 Seventh street, in the 
large brown-stone front. Remember the number — 28. 

Ben. — Yes. May I go home with you to-night, when 
I come back ? I am afraid to go back to my home ; I 
know old Dave will beat me if I do. 

Martha. — Yes, come back here and I will take you 
with me. \_Exit Ben.'] 

Scene 2. — Mr. Holland's parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Holland 
discovered. 

Mrs. Holland. — I am rather tired. It certainly was 
a long ride for me after m}^ illness, but I know it will 
do me good, and I will feel a great deal better after I 
become rested a little. [Putting her hand into her 
pocket.'] Oh, dear ! I've lost my pocket-book 1 Or, 
perhaps, m}^ pocket was picked while I was in the store. 
No, it couldn't have been. It must have dropped as I 
was getting into the carriage. It contained something 
over a hundred dollars. 



328 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mr. Holl.^nd. — Oh, well ; don't worry about it. You 
are not likely to get it again, but 'tis no difference. I 
hope some poor person will find it and use the money 
to make himself comfortable. [_Enter servant.'] 

Servant. — Mr. Holland, here is a little bo}^ who 
says he must see you. \_Exit servant.'] 
\_Enter Ben.] 

Ben. — Here, sir, is a pocket-book you or the lady here 
dropped about half an hour ago in front of Mason's 
store. I have not disturbed the contents. Good even- 
ing, sir [about to retire]. 

Mr. Holland. — Come back ; come back ; I want to 
talk to you. Be seated, my little man. 

Ben [yoith cap in hand]. — If you please, sir, I'd 
rather not. My clothes are ragged and dirty, and your 
chairs are grand. I will stand. 

Mr. Holland. — Pooh! You shant stand! Don't 
mind your clothes and the chairs — sit down — sit 
down ! The chairs have been occupied by persons who 
hadn't hs.if your honesty. Sit down, my honest little 
fellow — sit down ! Don't be afraid. \_Ben sits.] And 
you say you found this in front of Mason's store ? 

Ben. — Yes, sir. 

Mr. Holland. — Do you know how much money it 
contains ? 

Ben. — No, sir ; I opened it and looked in, but did 
not touch the money. 

Mr. Holland. — Here, Alice ; this is the pocket-book 
you dropped, isn't it ? Reward the honest little fellow 
as you see fit. 

Mrs. Holland. — Such honesty isn't often seen or 
heard of in this great wicked city, and I propose to 
reward him liberally. Here, my little friend, is the 
pocket-book as you found it. It contains something 
over one hundred dollars. Take it all and spend it as 
you choose. I know you will not spend it foolishly. 

Ben.— What I All ? Oh, ma'am ! I couldn't do that I 
I will be very glad to have a few dollars, though, as I 
have no home and can hardly get enough bread to keep 
.me alive. 

Mrs. Holland. — Have you no father or mother ? 

Ben. — No, ma'am. I have been living with across 




SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 329 

man, who says he is my uncle. His name is Dave Han- 
son. He was going to beat me this morning, because 
I wouhi not steal a package he told me to steal. I ran 
off, and do not like to go back again. 

Mr. Holland. — How would you like to stay with us ? 

Ben. — Oh, sir ; I would be delighted 1 I would do 
any thing for you if you would only give me a good 
home. 

Mr. Holland. — Well, it is settled ; you shall stay. • 

Ben [yoith demonstrations of joy"]. — Oh, sir; how kind 
you are I I thank you very much and will do any thing 
for 3^ou. 

Mrs. Holland. — What is your name, my honest 
little friend ? 

Ben. — Ben Wilson, ma'am. I have no friends in the 
city except Martha Raymond, who keeps a cake and 
apple stand on North street. I was talking to her to- 
night at her stand, when I saw your pocket-book. She 
knew you, and told me where to find you. And — oh, I 
forgot ! I promised to go back there to-night, and she 
said she would take me home with her, as I had no 
place to stay. She is far honester than I am, for I 
wanted to keep the money, but she said it would be 
wrong, and talked so good to me about doing right and 
trusting in God, that I couldn't keep the pocket-book. 
She is very poor and has a sick mother, and she says 
she needs medicine and refreshments. 

Mr. Holland. — Very well ; we will go to see them 
to-morrow morning and make them both comfortable. 
They shan't want for any thing. 

Ben. — Thanks, kind sir ; and now how happy I am, 
and ^turning to audience^ how happy I will be, if the 
fair ladies and gentlemen before us will agree, tfiat 
" Honesty is the best policy^^ and approve the coursi <>f 
Ben, the Orphan Boy. 

[ Curtain falls. 1 



330 SC'.HOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



THE CONVICT'S SOLILOQUY THE NIGHT 
BEFORE EXECUTION. 

[The convict should have on striped clothes — a shirt and 
pants — to represent a criminal; his face pale, eyes hollow, hair 
uncombed and matted. He should represent a person of about 
thirty years of age ; his feet fastened to the floor by a long, heavy 
chain ; his hands confined by handcuffs. The light should be 
very dim, which will add to the effect. The piece requires a good 
actor and speaker ; one who has a good control of his voice.] 

Scene. — A prison cell, containing a low mattrass of straw, 
a table, and a pitcher. Curtain rises, and discovers 
him sleeping uneasily. He awakes with a wild start. 
As he gets deeply into the subject he rises and walks the 

' floor. 

I have just dreamed a dream. Yes, with dreams m}'- 
nights of sleepless horror are filled. Those half unreal, 
yet so terrible ; so full of horrid phantasy ; but 'tis not 
of those. No! I have dreamed a dream. I dreamed that 
/ was a boy again and had not here this gnawing pain. 
I was still by m}^ mother's side. Oh, my God ! my mo- 
ther/ Why do /call on Godf But that dream, oh, that 
dream. That it might be real again. Yes, I knelt at 
her knee in prayer. In prayer ? Yes, in prayer, for I 
prayed then. And if I had been told that /should some 
time see this, feel this, this, all this, and this but my just 
part, I would have said and thought he lied who told 
me of it. 

But I was in prayer, at my mother's knee, my little 
hands, then innocent of guilt — my God ! how guilty now I 
by every crime they're stained — were clasped within her 
own, hers so loving, while her eyes of blue were hid 
from sight by those veined lids the while ; and there she 
prayed for her only child, for her boy, for me ; and such 
a prayer as touched my heart ; and such a prayer as 
might cause angels to weep and fiends to cower. I have 
noheart ; I cast it from me long, long ago, in the dim 
past ; dimmed by the sins and crimes that rise up be- 
tween that time and this — the da3's of happy youth. 
Happy, did I say ? happiness is a word forgotten and 
unknown to me. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 831 

And then I saw her anguish when she heard of my 
first sin. How pale she looked ! With what anguish 
unspeakable she looked on me, once her pride, now so 
fallen. Yet she loved me ; tried to woo me ba,ck to the 
paths of rectitude ; but in Tain ; I was hardened ; I 
would not listen ; there was no hope, I said : I spurned 
her love ; I was cold and cruel, though it broke my 
heart, for it was not stone then. At last she died. Oh ! 
such a death ! Her last breath of agony a prayer for 
me, her hoy. 

And then that bright-eyed, merry girl ! Ha ! ha ! I'll 
take to myself the bitter pleasure of thinking of her 
now for the last time. I loved her so well. How true, 
how good she was 1 how like an angel ! Yes, with all my 
soul I loved her, and she returned my love two-fold. She 
would not believe that I had sinned ; she said they lied ; 
but the proof came all too strong ; it dazed her brain, and 
she luas mad ! Oh God ! How fast I went down — down 
to the mouth of hell ! Oh ! those fiends in angel form 
that first led me to drink wine ; those fiends that the 
world calls women — fiends ! How she held the red 
wine to my lips ! I drank ; I was lost — lost for ever. Ah ! 
how Avell do I remember the first time that I took the 
bright coin, that burned into my soul like a thing ac- 
cursed — took it from my employer's drawer to pay for 
the drink that m}^ insatiable thirst demanded. It soon 
got to be an old story to me. Then I was found out. I 
fled. Oh God ! accursed, accursed ! My home gone, 
li-iends gone, soul ruined. I got money then; ha! ha I 
and that game was soon stopped. I was pursued too 
closely. The fiends of darkness that gather round me 
begone ! begone for a time ! There, what a fool I How 
I quake with fear ; for oh, I see his eyes — those eyes I 
Oh! 'Twas in the dim wood at nightfall that I turned 
at bay. Ah ! they'd better have let me alone. The 
tiger, when it feels the pangs of hunger, is more merci- 
ful than was I — maddened with the liquid fires of hell — 
RUM ! They became scattered ; I heard them searching; 
I crouched down under the bushes, down in the thicl^:, 
black darkness that choked me ; he was close upon me ; 
I clutched the knife ; one step more ; with a spring I 
was upon him. Staggered for a moment he sprang back ; 



332 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

with my wild strength I clutched him ; I drove the 
knife into his bosom ; the hot blood squirted full in my 
face ; with a groan he fell on the ground. Again I was 
npon him ; this time, with truer aim, I drove the knife- 
blade to his heart's core ; there, in the ghostly moon- 
light, with his wild, startled gaze full upon me, and that 
terrible rattle in his throat — I fell back like one dead — it 
was my brother ! 1 was his murderer ! How that white face 
stares out at me now ! those eyes ! I knew no more until 
I found myself here. They took me out for the eager 
rabble to gaze upon ; and I thought how many of you, 
fine folks, are yourselves making murderers with your 
accursed, demoniac, hellish drink ? They condemned me 
to death — that jury of stern men — without leaving the 
room they returned their verdict. 'Twas but a mockery, 
a mere form, though I asked not for pity. I got none. 
When that murmur of applause went through the room, 
I sprang to my feet ; he who had returned the verdict 
guilty — the foreman — was the damnable wretch who had 
sold me the poison which had brought me there ; he who 
had made me what I was ; he whose vile stuff had fired 
my brain when I did the deed, stood there before heaven 
and the world — pronounced me unfit to live ; he I and 
he to live and curse the world yet longer with his hellish 
traffic — his traffic in souls ; he ! There in the gallery 
among the crowd of women who had come to hear the 
words which sealed my doom, was she who Jirst held the 
wine cup to my lips ! She who scoflTed when I scrupled 
to take it. I drank it. The serpent has stung me sore — 
aye, poisoned my soul to its death for all eternity. 
How I gave vent to the surging, fiery waves within I 
They thought me mad. He, the vile wretch, sank down 
as if he had received his death blow. And well had it 
been for the world had it been so, and with all such as 
he. Pale and panting he cried for them to take me out; 
they dared not touch me, though my hands were fet- 
tered ; she, with a wild shriek, swooned, and they bore 
her away; well they might shrink as from the voice of 
doom. Oh 1 my lost spirit shall take keen pleasure, to 
which the joys of heaven were feeble, in haunting them. 
At last I sank back exhausted ;' they led me passive out, 
while il^e crowd opened right and left, and stared as 



SCIIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 833 

on an awful something — they knew not what. . . And 
to-morrow I die ! For the last time have I seen the sun 
set ; but once more am I to see the blue sky of heaven ; 
and then only to be suspended between it and the earth, 
in which my body is to lie. Hark I the clock tolls the 
hour. \_A clock slowly and distinctly strikes twelve.'] Soon 
they will be at work on the— gallows. Listen I yes, 
there is the sound of the saw and hammer. [_Sound of car- 
penter^s tools heard at work outside, and continue until cur- 
tain falls.'] Oh God ! can it be for me ? am I to die ? To 
die — so soon ? God of mercy hear me ! Visit those who 
tempted me to fall as they deserve/ And /am lost! Pro- 
bation ended — lacking six short hours. And I am lost! 
My mother I oh I my mother I Never more to meet I my 

God! MY MOTHER I 

[^Curtain slowly falls, while a dirge is played.] 



JOHN JONES'S FORTUNE. 

CHARACTERS. 

John Jones, a tailor. 
Sally Jones, his Avife. 
David Aiken, a neighbor. 



Scene. — A room scantily furnished. John Jones seated 

cross-legs on a table, sewing. Sally preparing dinner. 

John. — Well, Sally, we are getting along swimmingly 
now, aint we ? We are poor, very poor, but I think you 
will agree with me that we are happy. I think you will 
agree with me that we are the happiest couple in the 
county. 

Sally. — Yes, John, I agree with you; I believe I 
always agree witli you, and you always agree with me, 
and that's the way we happen to get along so well to- 
gether. 

John. — That's so, Sally ! Now there's the Smiths 
that live in the big brick house up on the hill yonder, 
they don't get along very well. They say the old man 
and the old woman arc continnall}^ fighting, and the 
boys have taken to drink and are fast becoming drunk- 



334 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ards. Tom was carried home the other night by two 
of his companions. He had been at a carousal in the 
village, and got so beastly drunk he couldn't ride. 

Sally. — I pity his parents, but, perhaps, they do not 
deserve pity, because if they had brought up their chil- 
dren properly they would not have turned out so. I'm 
glad we are not rich. If we were, something would go 
wrong. I might become lazy or you might become lazy, 
or — well, I don't know what might happen, but I'm sure 
we wouldn't be as happy as we are now. 

John. — That's so, Sally ; but I don't think you need 
feel uneasy about it. It will be a long time before we 
are rich. But, you know, we are out of debt, and I think, 
if I work hard, I can make as much as we can eat and 
wear • and, perhaps, in a year or two I can lay up a few 
dollars. 

\_Sally proceeds with her work, John sings a verse 
of the Star Spangled Banner.^ 
*' Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light. 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, 

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. 
Oh, say, does that star spangled banner yet wave, 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ?" 

[ Whistles the same tune a minute or two.^ 

John. — I say, Sally, hav'n't you got dinner ready ? 
I'm as hungry as an ox. 

Sally. — Yes, it is nearly ready ; but, you see, we 
hav'n't very much to eat to-day. I don't care for my- 
self, but I would like to bave something better for you 
when you have to work so hard. 

John. — Oh, never mind me, Sally, I'll get along. 
But you work as hard as I do, Sally — you know you 
do. I'll get a nice cut of beef this evening and some fresh 
fish, and we'll dine like kings to-morrow ; wont we, Sally ? 

Sally. — I'm sure, I'm satisfied with what we have, I 
have no complaints to make so long as we have no sick- 
ness nor trouble. You know it is better to have a table 
scantily spread and be happy, than to have a table loaded 
with the richest viands and be unhappy. But come, now ; 
dinner is rcidy for you. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 335 

John.' — And I'm ready for dinner. \^Puts doion his 
sewing, and gets off the table.'] It's a glorious thing to 
have a good appetite, even if it does cost a little more 
than to have a poor one. \_Knock at the door — opened by 
John. David Aiken discovered.'] Hallo, Dave I How 
do you do ? Come in ! 

David — No ; havn't time. 

John. — Oh, j^es, come in, and have a bite of dinner ; 
we havn't much, but you know you are welcome. 

David [fumbling in his coat pocket]. — I know, but I 
can't stop. I've got a letter for you, but it has got 
mixed up with some of my papers, and I can't find it. 
Here it is. It came in this morning's mail, and as I 
was coming past I thought I'd bring it to you. 

John. — Thank ye, Dave, thank ye ! [Exit David.] 
Sally, I guess we'll let the dinner cool a few minutes 
till we read this letter — wonder who it can be from. 
[Opens letter.] It is dated from Bently. [Beads.] 
" Sir: — This is to inform you that your mother's uncle 
is dead, and has left you the sum of forty thousand dol- 
lars." [Stops reading, and shouts.] Hurrah! hurrah! 
Isn't that grand news, Sally ? 

Sally. — It is. Oh ! John, I'm so glad ! But I never 
heard you speak of the old gentleman who has left you 
the fortune. 

John. — Well, to tell the truth, I didn't know much 
about him. I knew mj^ mother used to have an uncle 
out there somewhere, but I thought the old fellow was 
dead long ago. 

Sally.— Well, we are rich people now. We can buy 
that house and farm that is for sale down in Magoffin 
valley. 

John. — I guess we wont squander our money buying 
such poor land as that ! We'll go to the city and live, 
and I'll set up an extensive clothing store. 

Sally. — -Yes, and squander all your money before two 
years. 

John. — Sally, you'd better be careful ! You don't 
mean to say that I would go to drinking and gambling? 

Sally. — No, that wasn't what I meant, but that's 
what it will come to. Lots of people have tried to keep 
store in the city, and it has always ended in their break- 



336 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

ing up ; and that's the way it will be with you ; and then 
after you have squandered all j^our money that way 
you'll take to drink, and leave your poor wife and chil- 
dren to starve, and 

John. — Sally, shut up I You are making a fool of 
yourself. I reckon I know something about buying and 
selling, and can take care of my money. [^Sharply.'] 
Put the potatoes on the fire again ; I aint going to eat 
cold potatoes. 

Sally. — Well, if you don't like cold potatoes, you 
can put them on the fire yourself I I aint going to run 
after you and be your nigger any longer. You're get- 
ting mighty big all at once ! 

John.— Sall}^ if you don't keep quiet I'll strap you I 
Here, if you wont warm the potatoes I'll give them to 
the pigs. They are little bits of things an3^how, and 
you didn't half wash them. [ Throws the potatoes out of 
the window.'] You always were a dirty thing, and you 
never could wash potatoes. 

Sally. — There! take that, you low-lifed tailor I 
[ Throws a plate at him.'] And that ! and that ! [ Throws 
cups and sa,ucers.] You are the ugliest, hatefulest man 
in the world, and you ought to be 

John. — Sal., you old hag, I'll trounce you — I willl 
I John raises a stick to strike her — she slaps him in the 
face, and screa7ns.] 

\_Enter David.] 

David [seizing John]. — Hello ! John ! what are you 
about? I'm ashamed of you I Here, I've run back to 
give you jowv letter. I gave you the wrong one. 

John. — Did you? And I never looked at the en- 
velope. \_Picks up the envelope.] Why, it's for John 
Jacobs. Tell him I opened it in a mistake. 

David. — Here's your letter. The envelopes arn so 
much alike, and the names, too, that I very naturally 
made the mistake. Good-by, John; and let me tell 
you if I see you trying to whip your wife, the next 
time I come, I'll take you in hands mj'self, and give 
you a sound thrashing. 

John. — I'm ashamed of myself, Dave. Please say 
nothing about it. 

David. — All right. I'mmum. Good-by. [Exit David. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 837 

tTcust. - TTonV, StiTiy. well read another letter, [Beads.'] 
' fJiR: — Tlie cloth wUi be ready for 3'ou next Saturday, 
Yours, etc., Hanley k Anderson." So, you sec, our 
fortune ot forty thousand has vanished. Well, I can't 
say laat I am sorry. Are you, Sail}' ? 

SiiLiiir. — '^t'ruly, I am not. Let us forget our little 
trouble, and be happy again. As soon as we became 
rich Vb eommenced to ilgut ; now that we know we 
are poor again, we will be happy as in days gone by. 

John. — Yes, that we will ; and 1 sincerely hope that the 
letter will not raise the rumpus in John Jacobs' famil}^ 
that it did here. But I'm as hungry as a half-starved hip- 
popotamus. We can't have potatoes for dinner, that's 
certain; but let's eat something. And just before we 
go to dinner, I would say to our friends here before us, 
that riches do not alwa}- s bring happiness ; and in proof 
of this I would refer you to the Fortune of John 
Jones, the Tailor. 

[_Curfain falls. 1 



11^ WANT OF A SERVANT. 

CHARACTEKS. 

Mr. Marshall and Wife. Snowdrop Washington, 
Margaret O'Flanagan. Mrs. Bunker. 

Katrina Van Follenstein. Freddie. 

Scene 1. — The breakfast-room of Mr. and 3Irs. 3Iar- 
shall. Mr. Marshall smoking a cigar and enjoying the 
morning paper, with his heels on the mantel. 

Mrs. Marshall [in a complaining tone']. — Oh, dear, 
Charles, how sick and tired I am of housework ! I do 
euA-y people who are able to keep help. Here I am tied 
up to the little hot kUchen from morning till night — 
stewing, and baking, and fiying, and scrubbing, and 
washing floors, till I am ready to sink! One thing right 
over and over again. I wonder why Hood, when he 
wrote the " Song of the Shirt," had not kept on and 
written the Song of the Basement Story. 
22 



338 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. . ' 

Mr. M. ^revfiomng Ms cigar']. — Is it so verji-biid, Lilly? 
Why, I always thought it must be nice work to cook — 
and washing dishes is the easiest thing in the world. 
All you have to do is pour a little hot water on 'em and 
give 'em a flirt over with a towel. 

Mrs. M. — That's all you men know about it ; it is the 
hardest work in the world ! I always hated it. I remem- 
ber, when I was a little girl, I always used to be taken with 
the headaclie when mother wanted me to wash the dishes. 
And then she'd dose me with rhubarb. Ugh 1 how bitter 
it was ; but not half so bitter as washing dishes in boil- 
ing water in a hot kitchen in the middle of August 1 

Mr. M. [meditatively taking his feet from the mantel']. 
— I made a lucky sale this morning, and saved a cool 
three hundred. I had intended giving you a new silk, 
but I'll do better — I'll hire you a girl. How will that 
suit? 

Mrs. M. — Oh, what a darling I I would kiss ,you if 
3^ou hadn't been smoking, and my collar weren't quite 
so fresh. 1 am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a 
good soul, Charlie ; and I shall be so happy. Do you 
really mean it ? 

Mr. M. — To be sure. 

Mrs. M. — Wont Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy ? She 
puts her washing out, and she's always flinging that in 
my face. I guess the boot will be on the other foot now I 
I wonder what she'll say when she runs in of a morning 
to see what I'm cooking, and finds me in the parlor hem- 
stitching a handkerchief, and my 7naid attending to 
things in the kitchen ? But where is a girl to be had ? 
Will you go to the intelligence office ? 

Mr. M. — No; I don't approve of intelligence oflices. 
I will advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lilly. 

Mrs. M. [bringing the articles]. — You wont say that 
to me any more, Charles. It will be, ' Biddy, my good 
girl, bring me the writing implements,' Wont it be 
nice ? Just like a novel. They always have servants, 
you know. % 

Mr. M. — What, the novels ? 

Mrs. M. — No ; the people in them. Are you writing 
the advertisement ? 13e sure and say that no one need 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 339 

apply except experienced persons. I want no green 
hands about my kitchen. 

Mr. M. [^^-eads from the paper luJiat he has been 
writing']. — " Wanted, by A quiet family, a girl to do gen- 
eral housework. None but those having had experience 

need apply. Call at No. 116 B • street, between the 

hours of ten and two." How^ will that answ^er ? 

Mrs. M. — Admirably ! Charles, you'd ought to have 
been an editor. You express your ideas so clearly ! 

Mr. M. — Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believ« 
1 have some talent for expressing my meaning. But i 
am going down town now, and will have this advertise- 
ment inserted in the Herald, and by to-morrow you can 
hold yourself in readiness to receive applicants. By- 
bye. l^Goes out.'] 

Mrs. M. ^alone]. — If it isn't the most charming thing ! 
Wont the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving? Mrs. 
Smith has got a bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out 
her washing ; but I am to have a regular servant ! I 
shall get a chance to practice my music some now. 
Dear me — how red my hands are ! \^Looks at them.] I 
must get some cold cream for them ; one's hands show 
so on the white keys of a piano ! I'll go and open that 
piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of 
tune. But I'll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that 
girl fairly initiated into my way of doing work. ^Goes 
out.] 

Scene 2. — Mrs. Marshall awaiting the coming of " appli- 
cants.^^ A furious ring at the front-door bell. 

Mrs. M. [^peeping through the blinds]. — Dear me ! 
I wonder who's coming ! A person applying for the 
situation of servant would not be likely to come to the 
front door. I can just see the edge of a blue-silk flounce, 
and a streamer of red ribbon on the bonnet. I'll go and 
see who it is. 

[" Opens the door, and a stout Irish girl, gaudily 
dressed, with an eye-glass, and, a waterfall of 
enormous dimensions, pushes by her, and entering 
the parlor seats herself in the rocking-chair.] 
Mrs. M. — To what am I indebted for this visit ? 



340 SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Irish Girl. — It looks well for the like of yees to ask I 
It's the leddy what's wanting a young leddy to help f.u 
the wurrk that I'm after seeing. 

Mrs. M. [ivith dignity']. — I fem that person, if yon 
please. What may I call your name ? 

Irish Girl. — Me name's Margaret O'Flanagan, though 
some people has the impudence to call me Peggy ; but if 
ever the likes of it happens agin I'll make the daylight 
shine into 'em where it never dramed of shining before. 
What may your name be, mum ? 

Mrs. M. — My name is Marshall. I am in want of a 
servant. 

Margaret. — Sarvint, is it ? Never a bit of a sarvint 
will I be for anybodj^ !' The blud of me forefathy would 
cry out against it. But I might have ixpected it from 
the apearance of 3'ees. Shure, and I'd no other thought 
but ye was the chambermaid. Marshall, is it ? Holy 
St. Patrick ! why that was the name of the man that 
was hung in county Cork for the murthering of Dennis 
McMurpliy, and he had a nose exactly like the one fore- 
ninst your own face. 

[A second ring at the door. Mrs. Marshall ushers 
in a stolid-faced German girl, and an over-dressed 
colored lady. They take seats on the sofa."] 

German Girl. — Ish dis the place mit the woman what 
wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper 
day pefore to-morrow ? 

Mrs. M. — Yes, I am the woman. What is your name ? 

German Girl. — Katarina Van FoUenstein. I can do 
leetlo of most every thing. I can bake all myself, and 
bile, and fry ; and makes sour-krout — oh, sphlendid ! 
And I sphanks the children as well as their own 
m udders. 

Margaret. — If ye'U condescend to lave that dirty 
Dutchman, young leddy, I'll be afther asking ye a i\)\v 
questions ; and then if ye don't shute me I can l)e laving. 
Me time is precious. Is them the best cheers in ^er 
noiise ? 

Mrs. M. — They are. 

Margaret. — Holy Vargin ! Why, mum, I've been 
ased to having better cheers than them in me own room. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 841 

and a sofy in me kitchen to lay me bones on when thev ^re 
took aching. Have ye got a wine cella^i' ? 

Mrs. M. [indignaatly']. — No! We are temperance 
people. 

Margaret. — Oh, botheration ! Then ye'll nirer do 
for me, at all at all! It's wine I must have ivery day 
to keep me stummach in tune, and if Barne}^ O'Grath 
comes in of an avening I should die of the mortifications 
if I didn't have a drop of something to U'ate him on. 
And about the peanny. It's taking lessons I am, me- 
self. and if it's out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at 
once. I never could think of playing on a instrument 
that was ontuned. It might spile me A'oice. 

Mrs. M. — I want no servants in my house who are 
taking music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work — not 
to dictate to me, and sit in the parlor. 

Margaret. — Ye don't hire me. No mum! Not Dy a 
lono^ walk. It's not Mars^aret 0'Flanio;an that'll be 
hosted round by an old sharp-nosed crayter like yeself, 
wid a mole on yer left cheek, and yer waterfall made oat 
of other folks' hair ! The saints be blessed, me own is 
an illegant one — and never a dead head was robbed for 
to make it ! 'Twas the tail of me cousin Jimmy's red 
horse — rest his soul ! 

Mrs. M. [pointing to the dooi'^- — You can leave the 
house, Miss 'Flanagan. You wont suit me. 

Margaret. — And you wont shute me! I w^ouldn't 
work with ye for a thousand dollars a week ! It's not 
low vulgar people that Margaret 'Flanagan associates 
with. Good-by to ye ! I pity the girl ye gets. May 
the saints presarve her — and not a drop of wine in the 
house ! [Margaret goes out.'] 

Mrs. M. —Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a 
few questions ? 

Katrina. — Yah. I is. 

Mrs. M. — Are you acquainted with general house- 
work ? 

Katrina. — Nix. I never have seen that shinneral. 1 
know Shinneral Shackson, and Shinneral Grant, but not 
that one to speak of! 

Mrs. M. — 1 intended to ask if you are used to doing 
»fork in the kitchen ? 



542 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Katrina. — Yaw. I sees. Dat ish my thrade. 

Mrs. M. — Can you cook ? 

Katrina. — Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a 
cook. 

Mrs. M. — I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can 
yon wash ? 

Katrina.^ — Beeples what ish in de upper-crust puis 
their washing out. 

Mrs. M. — Can 3^on make beds, and sweep ? 

Katrina. — The dust of the fedders sthuffs up my 
head, what has got one leetle ^iutar into it. Most 
beeples keeps a chamber-maid. Now, I wants to ask 
you some tings. You gits up in the morning, and gits 
breakfast, of course ? It makes mine head aclie to git 
up early. And you'll dust all the furnitures, and schrub 
the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors, and 
pump the water, and make the fires, and 

Mrs. M. — We shall do no such thing. What an inso- 
lent wretch ! You can go at once. I've no further use 
for you. You won't suit. 

Katrina [^retreating']. — Mine krout I what a particular 
vomans. 

Colored Lady. — Wall, missis, specks here's jest de 
chile for ye. What wages does jou gib ? and what is 
yer poUyticks ? 

Mrs. M. — What is your name — and what wages do 
you expect ? 

Colored Lady. — My name is Snowdrop Washington, 
and I specks five dollars a week if I do my ovvn wash- 
ing, but if it is put out to de washerwoman's wide de 
rest of de tings, den I takes off a quarter. And it's 
best to have a fair understanding now, in de beginning, 
I'm very perticular about my afternoons. Tuesda3\s I 
studies my cataplasin and can't be 'sturbed ; Wednes- 
days I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what's got de 
spine of de back ; Thursdays 1 allers takes a dose of 
lobeel}' for me stummuch, and has to lay abed ; and Fri 
days 1 ginei'ally walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren 
of mine — and in none of dem casins can I be 'sturbed. 
And 1 shall spect you to" find gloves f')r me to do de 
work in ; don't like to sile my hands. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 343 

Mrs. M. — I want to hire a giii to work — ererj' day — 
and every hoar in the day. 

Snowdrop. — The laws-a-massy ! what a missis ! Why, 
in dat case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash ! 
Ketch Snowdrop Washington setting in dat pew ! Not 
dis nigger ! I wish j'ou a berry lubly morning ! 

[Goes out, and a icoman clad in icidoy:''s iceeds, and 
a little hoy, enter.'] 

Woman [m a brisk tone]. — Are you the person that 
wants to hire help ? Dear me, don't I smell onions ? 
I detest onions ! Only vulgar people eat 'em ! Have 
your children had the measles ? Because I never could 
think of taking Freddie where he might be exposed to 
that dreadful disease. Freddie, my love, put down that 
vase. If you should break it, you might cut yourself 
with the pieces. Have you a dog about the house, marm ? 

Mrs. M. — Yes, we have. 

Woman in black. — Good gracious ! he must be killed 
tben ! I shouldn't see a bit of comfort if Freddie was 
where there was a dog. The last words my dear la- 
mented husband said to me were these : " Mrs. Bunker, 
take care of Freddie.'' Bunker's m}' name, marm. Have 
3'ou a cow ? 

Mrs. M, — We have not. 

Mrs. Bunker. — How unfortunate ! Well, I suppose 
j'ou can buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new 
milk : and so do I. How manj' children have vou ? 

Mrs. M.— Three. 

Mrs. Bunker. — Good gracious ! what a host ! I hope 
none of them have bad tempers, or use profane lan- 
guage. I wouldn't have Freddie associate with them for 
the world if thej' did. He's a perfect cherub in temper. 
My darling, don't pull the cat's tail 1 she may scratch 
you. 

Mrs. M. — You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bun- 
ker. I do not wish to emplo}' a maid with a child. 

Mrs. Bunker. — Good heavens [indignantly'] ! Who- 
ever saw such a hard-hearted wretch! Object to my 
dailing Freddie ! Did I ever expect to live to see the 
clay when the offspring of my beloved Jeremiah would 
be treated in this way ! I'll not stay another moment in 
the house with such an unfeeling monster I Come, 



344 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Freddie. \_Goes out. Mrs. Marshall closes the door and 
locks it.'] 

Mrs. M. — Gracious ! if this is the way of having a 
servant, I am satisfied. I '11 do my own work to the end 
of the chapter ! There 's another ring ; but I wont answer 
it — not I. I'll make believe I'm not at home. Ring 
away, if it 's any satisfaction to you ! It doesn't hurt me. 



HOW THEY KEPT A SECRET. 
CHAEACTEES. 

HOBBS. 

Julia 
Dick, 
Mrs. Webster. 



Mrs. Hobbs. 

Tk-^^ ' !■ Her children. 
DjCK, ) 



Miss Prince. 
Mrs. BlxVisdell. 
James, her son. 
Mrs. Parker. 



Scene 1. — Mrs. Hohhs' sitting-room. Mrs. Hobbs darn- 
ing stockings. Julia Ann crocheting. Dick whittling. 

Mrs. Hobbs [glancing from the window']. — Goodness 
airth! Julia Ann! who's that 'ere a-coming up street? 
I '11 declare if it haint Mis' Webster ! Yes, I should know 
that red-and-blue shawl, if I should see it in Canady ! 
She's allers etarnally upon the go! No weather stops 
her ! Yer father sed, the other day, that the town ort to 
pay her for brushing out the roads ! And in this awful 
snow-storm, too, wdien it 's too bad for any mortal critter 
to be out of doors — who 'd a-thought of her turning out ? 
I declare ! I must say she 's hard drove ! Got something 
or ruther to tell of about somebody, I'll be bound ! Take 
them clothes out of that , cheer ! Brush up the hearth ! 
quick! and hand me my t'other specks! There, she's 
a-rapping ; go to the door ! 

[Julia ushers in Mrs. Webster, a middle-aged lady in 
spectacles.] 

Mrs. H. [rising]. — Why, goodness airth ! Mis' Web- 
ster! Wall, if I haint l)eat! Why, who'd a-thought 
of seeing you? I was jest a-telling Julia Ann that I 
didn't believe but what you was sick abed, I hadn't seen 
you out for so long ! I was a-saying to Ebeu this morning, 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 345 

that I must try and git a chance to go over to your house 
to-day — and Eben, he — 

Mrs. Webster.— It snows a little, to be sure, and I 
s'pose I hadn't ort to have come out in it; but I'd got 
tired to death a-stayiug in the house. I told Uncle 
Thomas this morning, that I must walk.out somewhere 
and get the air, or I should have the rickets. And Uncle 
Thomas he sed, " Most assured^^■' But I'm one of that 
kind that can't live without the air, no how! I don't 
think I should survive a month, if I was shot up in a 
place where I couldn't git no air! 

Mrs. H. — Xo, I reckon not. We couldn't take no 
comfort, at all, without it ! It 's dreadful nice to set a 
body up ! Bracing like ! 

Mrs. W. — Wonderful ! La! here's Julia Ann. I was 
so snow-blinded, when I come in, that I didn't notice it 
was her ! How do you do, Julia Ann ? 

Julia. — Very well, thank you. 

Mrs. W. — Law ! how perlite you have got to be, sence 
you went to the academy. It 's stuck you right up, haint 
it? Julia, is that all your own hair on yer head? or is 
it false? 

Julia. — It is my own. 

Mrs. W.— Law! is it? Wall, I declare! I didn't 
know you had such a mop of hair ; should think it would 
make yer head ache ! 'Taint wholesome to have so much 
hair ! I should think you 'd feel top-hea\^. Why, I 
Avouldn 't have my hair done up so for all the world ! 

Dick. — Didn 't know you had any hair, Mrs. Webster. 
Thought you wore a wig. Tom Smith said so. 

Mrs. W. \_indignantly']. — Tom Smith is a — very bad 
boy I \ 

Dick. — Well, he said he looked through the window, 
one night, and saw you peel your head till it looked just 
like a boiled turnip, any how. 

Mrs. H. — Dick, keep quiet, or leave the room ! 

Dick — Yes, marm. 

Mrs. W. — Children are dreadful nuisances, Mrs. Hobbs. 
I declare I can't feel sufficiently grateful to Providence 
for my freedom from the little torments. I trust I shall 
always be spared in that way ! 

Dick laside]. — Guess you needn't worry. 



346 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mrs. H. — Do take off' your bonnit, Mis' Webster. 
Haint you got your knitting along ? 

Mrs. W. — No. I mustn't stop long. Have yon heern 
from Deacon Skinner's wife lately ? 

Mrs. H. — No. Not sence day afore yesterday. Pritty 
sick, aint she? 

Mrs. W. — Law, yes ! Wall, poor soul ! 'taint no won- 
der ! ah me ! no wonder at all. 

Mrs. H.— Why, how you talk. Mis' Webster ! What 
do you mean ? 

Mrs. W, [with a mysterious shake of the head}. — Ah, it's 
no matter what I mean ! Poor woman ! Poor Ruth 
Abby ! Well may she look forward with rejoicing to the 
time when she will shovel off" this mortal coil ! 

Mrs. H. — What on airth do you mean ? Do tell ! 

Mrs. W. — Oh, it's no consequence what I mean ! None 
at all ! I wouldn 't breathe a word of it to anybody, for 
the world ! No, not for the world ! I'd cut my tongue 
out first ! 

Mrs. H. — Goodness airth! It must be something 
dreadful! Do tell me. Mis' Webster! I'll be jest as 
secret as a gravestone ! I wont never breathe a syllable 
of it to nobody ! never ! Don 't be afeard to trust me ! 

Mrs. W. — Oh, don 't ask me, Mrs. Hobbs. I mustn 't 
let out a whisper of it ! I declare, I felt so about it after 
I heerd of it, that I never slept a wink last night ! I laid 
and tossed, and turned, and heerd the clock strike every 
time! And if there's anything tejus, it's laying awake 
nights. 

Mrs. H. — That 's so. Now, whar I lived up to Harry 
Wrough, I got into jest such a fix. I didn't sleep nights 
any more than as if I'd been into the fire ! It's awful to 
git in that way ! 

Mrs. W. — Dreadful ! especially when your narves is as 
distractioned as mine is ! I haint been so slim in health 
for years as I am now. I went to Durham the other day, 
to see that new doctor ; and he skairt me nigh about to 
death. He says I 've got the information of the brong- 
key, and that it will bring on the brown creeters, and 
likely enuff* the new money. And he said that I 'd got 
symptoms of catechisms growing over my eyes, and my 
disgustin organs is in an awful condition. Such a state 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. '347 

of decease he says he 's seldom seen in one person ! And 
my stomach is out of order, and my liver ; and he says 
I 'm the most rebellious of any body he ever seed ! 

Mrs. H. — Goodness airth ! Wall, that's dreadful! 
Wall, now, when I lived up to Harry Wrough, I got 
jest so. Dr. Smith he ixaminated me, and said if I didn't 
take some cally-mill, I should be in danger of going into 
the hydrostatick fits without delay ! He sed my stomach 
hadn't got any grass-stick juice into it. 

Mrs. W. — A little thing upsets me. And when I 
heerd this about Deacon Skinner, I thought I should 
have swoonded! He, a deacon, and a pillow of the 
church ! and his wife still alive ! Oh, it 's awful ! awful ! 

Mrs. H.— Do tell, Mis' Webster ! do, dear ! I'll never 
whisper it — not even to Eben ! no, never ! 

Mrs. W. — I know I hadn't ort to lisp it to a single 
creeter ! But I have so much confidence in you, Mrs. 
Hobbs. Send them children out, though. 

Mrs. H. — Julia Ann, you and Dick go out in t'other 
room ! [ They go ouf] There, Mis' Webster, there 's 
nobody in hearing now. Let's hear it. 

Mrs. W. — Wall, Deacon Skinner was seen to kiss a 
woman, night afore last, in his own front entry ! a woman 
that come in the last train ; and wore curls, and had a 
black satchel, and cheeks red as your Julia Ann's. And 
what's more, that woman is there now! !■ 

Mrs. H. — Gracious airth ! How awful ! how dreadful ! 
Dear, deary me ! And he a going to prayer-meeting, and 
talking like an angel ! Why, only last Sunday night, 
his talk was so affecting, that the tears fairly run down 
over my nose, and I felt so weak you might have knocked 
me down with a feather ! Wall ! wall ! what is the world 
a-coming to ? If Deacon Skinner has fell, J:hen the Lord 
presarve us all ! 

Mrs. W. — Wall, there haint no mistake about this 'ere; 
for Seth Holmes that works to our 'us, seed the sight with 
his own eyes, and is ready to swear to it ! But, I declare, 
it's eleven o'clock, and I must be a-gwine! Do come 
over, Mrs. Hobbs. 

Mrs. H. — Why need you hurry. Mis' Webster? It is 
such a treat to see you ! Do come over often, do ! Why 
can 't you stop and git some dinner ? 



.348 SCHOOLDAY DIAI.OGUES. 

Mrs. W. — I can't, to-day; you come and see me. 
Good-day. 

Mrs. H. — Good-day, Mis' Webster. IMrs. Webster 
goes ouf] Wall, of all things ! Deacon Skinner onfaith- 
ful ! Wall, I allers thought there was an evil look about 
his eyes ! The heart is deceitful and desprit wicked, the 
Scripture says, and it's the truth ! I must run over and 
see if Mis' Blaisdell has heern it ! If she haint, I guess 
she'll stare some, for she thinks there haiut nobody on 
the footstool but Deacon Skinner's folks. [ Calls.'] Julia ! 
Julia! come in here, and keep this pot a-biling! I'm 
a-biling some corned beef for your father to kerry into 
the woods for his dinner to-morrow. I 've got to go over 
to Mis' Blaisdell's, to get her reseet for making hop yeast. 
Shan't be gone long. 

[ Curtain falls.'] 

Scene 2. — The kitchen of Mrs. Blaisdell. Present, Mrs. 
Blaisdell and her son James. Enter Mrs. Hohhs. 

Mrs. Blaisdell. — Ah, good morning, Mrs. Hobbs ! 
Good morning. Snowy, isn't it? Sit up by the fire, and 
warm, do. 

Mrs. Hobbs. — Thank ye, I haint cold. And I mustn 't 
stop long. Thought I'd jest run over a miunit, and see 
if you was dead, or alive. Health good, this winter ? 

"Mrs. B. — Tolerable. The rheumatism troubles me 
some. How are you ? 

Mrs. H. — Very well, for me. James, how does the 
world use you ? 

James. — Kindly, thank you. 

Mrs. H. — Skate any ? 

James. — Yes, when there is any ice. 

Mrs. H.— -Vou must come over and learn Julia Ann. 
She's jest beginning, and it comes rather hard for her, 
not having no grown up brother. 

James — I sliall be very happy to come any time. 

Mrs. B. — What's the news, Mrs. Hobbs? General 
time of health, isn 't it ? 

Mrs. H. — Yes, I believe everybody is well except Mis' 
Deacon Skinner. By the way, have you heern from her 
lately? 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 349 

Mrs. B. — Yes, James was over there last niglit, and 
she — dear me ! if here ain 't Miss Prince, and Mis' Parker ! 
\_Enter two ladies.'] Why, how do you do ? What stran- 
gers you are ! 

Miss Prince. — Dear sake! Why, here's Mis' Hobbs ! 
Quite a tea party, Mis' Bhiisdell ! 

Mrs. Parker. — And I with this old hood on ! If I 'd 
a-thought of seeing anybody, I 'd a-dressed up a little. 

Mrs. H. — We was jest speaking of Mis' Deacon Skin- 
ner. Have you heern anything about her ? 

Miss Prince. — We've heern enuff about him! Oh, 
dear me ! Mis' Blaisdell, have you heerd that dreadful 
story about Deacon Skinner ? 

Mrs. H.— Then, it's got out? 

j\[rs. Parker. — Got out ! it's all over town! And it 
ort to git out ! I, for one, don 't feel under no obligations 
to keep it ! though I promised Mis' Webster I would. 

Miss Prince. — It ort to be put into the newspapers, 
and be telegraphed from one end of the country to the 
other ! Such conduct is shameful in such a man as Dea- 
con Skinner perfesses to be ! 

Mrs. Parker. — A man that sets hisself up as a model ! 
and a Deacon, too ! 

Mrs. H. — And a pillow of the church ! 

Mrs. B. — For pity's sake, good people, what has Dea- 
con Skinner done ? 

Miss Prince. — Is it possible you haven 't heard ! 

Mrs. Parker. — I thought everybody knowed it ! Poor 
Mis' Skinner ! my heart aches for her ! If it was my hus- 
band, I know I 'd scald him ! He 'd ort to be hung, and 
then kept on bread and water for a fortnight ! 

Miss Prince. — Hanging is too good for him ! Thank 
fortune ! I 've never had nothing to do with none of the 
men sect. 

Mrs. B. — Do explain yourselves. 

Mrs. H.— He 's unfaithful ! He— 

Mrs. Parker. — He 's got a woman there that he — 

Miss Prince. — Was seen to kiss twice or three times, 
in his front entry, night afore last ; and — 

Mrs. H. — She 's young, and wears curls ! and come in 
the last train — 

Miss Prince. — And had a black satchel, and a gilt 



350 S'CHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

fandangle on her bonnit, and black eyes, and cheeks that 
was altogether too red to be nat'ral ! Thank goodness ! 
everybody knows I don't paint ! \_Looks in the glass, and 
gives her cheeks a sly pinch.'] 

Mrs. H. — Such doings is dreadful ! James, what are 
you laffing at ? 

Mrs. Parker. — You 'd better cry than laff. 

Mrs. B. — Ladies, you are laboring under a mistake — 

Mrs. H. — No, it come correct. Seth Holmes seed him 
kiss her, with his own eyes ! 

James — He did, did he? Well, I hope it did him 
good. And I don't blame the deacon for kissing her. 
I'd try the operation myself, if I had a chance. 

Mrs. H. — Why, James Blaisdell ! I allers thought you 
was a moral young man ! If them's your principles, you 
needn 't take the trouble to come over to go skating with 
my Julia Ann. 

Mrs. B. — Ladies, allow me to explain. The lady who 
came night before last in the cars, was Lucy Skinner, the 
deacon's youngest sister, and she came to take care of 
Mrs. Skinner, who, I am happy to say, is a great deal 
better. I don't see anything wrong in a man's kissing 
his own sister. 

Mrs. H. — Wall, I declare ! how folks will git up stories ! 
I didn't railly believe it, when I heerd it ! Deacon Skin- 
ner is such a nice man, and has been so long a pillow of 
the church. 

Miss Prince. — Mis' Webster is a dreadful gossip! 
Thank goodness, I never talk scandal ! 

Mrs. Parker. — People ort to be keerful how they re- 
port such stories. I, for one, never make a practice of 
going about, talking about my neighbors ; I have some- 
thing else to attend to. 

\_Curtain falls.'] • 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 351 



STEALING APPLES. 

CH-IEACTEES. 
Squtre Pit^ian. 
JA3IES S3IITH, U^eighbors. 

Thomas Geet, \ g^^^ ^^ ^^^ nei-liborhood. 

FeA^-K (jrEEES". J • = 

Syeyestee, Squire Pitman's Servant. 

SCE>?E. — Squire Pitman in his Library, reading a nexus- 
paper. A noise at the door. Enter Iteuben and James, 
each with a boy. 

James. — ^Here they are, sir I 

Reubex. — We've caught the little rascals at last, sir. 
We told YOU they Tvere stealing all vour apples. 

Sqeiee Pitman, — Bless my soul ! and what are their 
names ? 

James. — This one is Tom Grey, and the other one is 
Frank Green. 

Reuben". — Squire, just you give us the word, and we'll 
lay this new cowhide on their little ragged backs, till they 
are satisfied to let the apples alone. [ShaJdng the boys, 
and flourishing the whip.'] 

Squire P. — I shall give no such command, . . . You 
may leave them here with me, 

Reuben. — ^You are not going to let them 2:0, are you ? 
for now 's your time to licJ: them, since the little thieves 
have been caught. 

Squire P. — Very well, you may go and leave the 
young gentlemen with me ; I will attend to them. 

Reuben. — Bat you will want this whip, wont you? 
[cautiously letting go of the boys.'] 

Squire P. — Xo, I shall have no need of it ; you may 
take it away. [Exit James and Beuben. Thomas and 
Frank shy off, as Squire Pitman approaches them.] Boys, 
you needn't be afraid, — I am very happy to see you, I 
like to receive visits from young people, though I think it 
better, in such cases, for them to come through the gate 
and not get over the fence, as they are liable to tear their 



352 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

clothes. \^Franh looks at his torn trowsers.^ Pi'ay, sit 
down. [ They sit down on the corners of two chairs.~\ How 
old are you, Thomas ? I believe that is your name ? 

Thomas. — Twelve, sir. 

Squire P. — And you, Frank ? 

Frank. — I am twelve, too. 

Squire P. — And I am seventy ! It is really kind of 
you to call upon an old gentleman like me. But the 
evenings are short; you ought to have come earlier. 
[ Waiting a moment.'] Are you fond of fruit, Thomas ? 

Thomas ^hesitatingly']. — Y-e-e-s, sir. 

Squire P. — Do you like it, too, Frank ? 

Frank. — Pretty well. 

Squire P. — So I suppose ; .most boys do. [Mings a bell. 
Enter Sylvester.] 

Sylvester. — I am at your eervice, sir. 

Squire P. — You may bring in some knives and plates, 
and lay them on the table here. 

Sylvester. — Yes, sir. [ Goes out] 

Squire P. [to boys]. — I suppose you could eat a few 
apples to-night, couldn 't you ? 

Thomas and Frank together. — Yes, sir. 

Squire P. — I generally keep a little fruit to treat the 
friends who are kind enough to call upon me. 

[ The knives and plates are brought in, and Squire Pit- 
man brings a basket of apples from a closet.] 

Squire P. — Help you rsel ves. [Boys, apparently ashamed, 
commence to eat.] Do you like them ? 

Thomas. — Yes, sir ; they 're tip-top. 

Squire P. — I'm glad you think so. I have several 
apple-trees in my garden. James, the gardener, was tell- 
ing me that there was some danger of boys getting in, and 
robbing the trees ; but I don 't have any fears on that 
score. [Thomas and Frank exchange glances.] If any 
of the boys want fruit, I know they would prefer to come 
an/i ask me for it, or drop in and make a friendly call, as 
you are doing. By the way, wouldn 't you like to carry 
home a few apples with you ? 

Thomas and Frank [hesitatingly]. — Yes, sir. 

Squire P. — If you had something to put them in? 

Thomas. — I 've a handkerchief 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 353 

Frank. — And I 've got a bag. [Holding up one."] 

Squike p. — Bless my soul, how thoughtful you were, to 
bring a bag I It will be just the thing. You're welcome 
to the apples in that basket, if you can stow them away. 

Thomas. — We are very much obliged to you. 

Squire P. — Oh, don't say a word. It is a mere trifle, 
and I like to make some acknowledgment for your kind 
call. Will you call and see me again ? 

Frank. — Yes, sir, if you would like it. 

Squire P. — I should be most happy to have you come. 
I get lonesome sometimes, and young company cheers me 
up. Perhaps, however, you 'd better come to the door, as 
it is a little dangerous climbing over fences. Now, you 
can go. [Taking the boys by the hand and leading them 
to the door.^ Good-bye, — you will remember to come and 
see me again, wont you ? [Exit Squire PitmanJ] 

Frank. — Aint he a trump ? 

Thomas. — That 's so ! I felt awful mean, to have him 
treat me so, when I had come after his apples. 

Frank. — So did I. When he told about tearing 
clothes, climbiug over fences, how he looked at mine ! 

Thomas. — Yes, and how he called us gentlemen ! Oh, 
I felt so mean, when he was telling what the gardener 
said about the boys stealing the apples, and he looked at 
us so slyly, that I didn 't know what to do. 

Frank. — If those two men had whipped us as they 
wanted to, [doubling up his fist,'] I would have stolen all 
the fruit he had ; but I wont now. 

Thomas. — Neither will I. You '11 never catch me in 
such a scrape again. 

Frank [to the audience']. — 



Thomas. — 



Speak gently to the erring one ! 

Oh, let us ne'er forget, 
However darkly stained by sin, 

He is our brother yet! 

Forget not, brother, thou hast sinned, 
And sinful yet mayst be ; 

Deal gently with the erring heart, 
As God hath dealt with thee. 



Frank and Thomas together. 



Love is the golden chain that binds 

The happy souls above; 
And he 's an heir of heaven that finds 

His bosom filled with love. 



23 



354 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

PLAYING FOUKTH OP JULY. 

CHAKACTEKS. 

Maby, Frank, Sam, Lucy, Cora, \p;,:i/i^„ 
Willie, Kate, Harry, John, Hattie, / ^^^^'®°* 

Scene 1. — Sitting-room^ with chairSy table, etc. Mary and 
Kate sewing ; Cora and Hattie playing with dolls in one 
comer ; Imcy standing at the window ; Frank and John 
playing checkers; Sam reading; Willie playing with 
blocks ; Harry rummaging Kate's vjork-basket. 

Lucy. — I do wish it would quit raining. 

John. — So do I ; it 's tiresome staying in the house. 

Harry. — I don 't know what to do with myself. 

Kate [fo Harry']. — Let my work-basket alone, and 
behave yourself ! 

Harry. — Can 't I [ Tickles Kate^s ear with a straw."] 

Willie. — ^I wish 'twould twit rainin'. 

Kate pa TFi^/ie].— Why, you little pet! [To :Barry.] 
Harry, da let me alone ! 

Willie. — 'Cause mother would turn home *en. 

Frank. — Let's play something. 

Cora. — ^We've played everything. 

Harry. — Let's play something new! 

Kate. — How do you play it ? 

Harry. — Oh, how sharp ! You Ve been visiting the 
grindstone lately, haven 't you ? 

Willie. — ^Let 's pay Kismas. 

Lucy. — Christmas doesn 't come in the summer. 

Willie. — T'anksgivin' 'en. 

Lucy. — ^Thanksgiving doesn 't, either. 

Cora. — Willie is thinking about the cakes and goodies. 

Mary. — You needn 't think of goodies, until mother 
gets back ; I 'm cook now. 

Harry [pointing at Mary]. — Wouldn't she make a 
good step-mother ? 

John. — She would starve the poor little young ones 
to death. 

Sam. — Let 's play Fourth-of- July I 

All {jumping up]. — Good ! good ! 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 355 

Hattie. — How will we play it ? 

Sam. — ^ye'll have music, aud march around, and have 
the Declaration of Independence read, and an oration, 
and a dinner, &c. 

Mary. — You seem determined to have eating going 
on ; but I warn you that the pantry key is lost, and the 
windows fastened. 

John. — AYhew ! isn't she savage? 

Cora. — We can pretend to eat, like Hattie and I do 
at our doll dinners. 

Sam. — Come, let's begin. 

Kate. — Yes, Sam 's in a hurry to make a speech. We'll 
appoint him orator of the day. 

All. — Agreed ! 

Mary. — And Harry reader of the Declaration. 

John. — The Declaration is a dry old thing. 

Frank \_doubling up his fists']. — How dare you say so ? 
You ought to be thrashed ! Why, the Declaration of In- 
dependence is the guarantee of personal liberty, the cradle 
of American freedom, the — 

Harry. — The velocipede of politicians. 

John. — Don't care, it's stupid. We'll all be snoring 
before he 's half through. 

Frank. — How do you know, you 've never read it ? 

Lucy. — It 's too long, and I don 't know where one is. 

Frank. — Do you mean to insinuate that we, a family 
of American citizens, haven 't a Declaration of Indepen- 
dence in the house ? 

Harry. — Oh, fudge! I'll make one. 

LucY". — Capital ! make one better than the original. 

Cora.— W^hat else? 

Sam. — You and Hattie shall be committee on table 
arrangements, since you understand the rare art of getting 
up splendid dinners out of nothing. 

Frank. — And Kate shall be marshal, and John and I 
musicians. 

Hattie. — And W^illie flag-bearer. 

Willie. — S'ant we have torpedoes ? 

Frank. — Yes, you youngster, all we can find. 

Mary. — Come, let's get ready. 

[ Curtain falls.'] 



356 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Scene 2. — Same room. Two barrels, with a stool on each, 
at one end of the room; chairs, arranged in two rows, 
in front of the barrels. Enter Kate, with scarlet sash 
knotted about her waist, a boy's cap with three feathers stuck 
in it on her head, and a rolling-pin in her right hand. 

Kate. — All clear ! Forward, march ! 

[The procession marches in, headed by Willie, carrying 
a flag, and John and Frank trying to play Yankee 
Doodle on a tin pan and a whistle. The others follow, 
two by two, and march around several times. ~\ 

Kate. — Halt ! Speakers will take their places on the 
platform ; audience, be seated ; flag-bearers and musicians, 
up front ! 

\_T hey follow directions, Harry mounting one barrel, and 
Sam the other.'] 

Kate [unfolds a large sheet of brown paper, and reads ;] 
Attention ! Order of exercises : First, Martial music, 
Hail Columbia, by the famous Newport band. Second, 
Reading of the Declaration of Independence, by the won- 
derful elocutionist, the Honorable Henry Moore, M. D. 

Frank. — Mud Digger ! 

Kate [reads:']. — Third, Song, Star Spangled Banner, 
by the celebrated Prima Donna, Lucina D'Ane. Fourth, 
Oration, by the world-renowned orator, Professor Samuel 
Deane, LL. D. 

John. — Long-Legged Dunce ! 

[Hail Columbia is played.] 

Harry [rising and bowing]. — Beloved brethren and 
sisters — 

Willie. — He's a-goin' to preach. 

Harry. — Most talented hearers. I call your attention 
to the most remarkable document of modern times, the 
Declaration of Independence, [unrolls a piece of wall- 
paper or a window-shade, and reads :] We hold this to be a 
geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, except 
the " heathen Chinee," that — 

Sam. — Hold on ! that wont do. It conflicts with my 
oration. By virtue of that Declaration, America wel- 
comes to her shores the down-trodden of every nation. 

Frank. — It's just right. A Chinaman run to pig-tail 
isn 't half as good as I am. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 357 

Sam. — He 's a sight better. 

Harry.— What shall I do ? 

Sam. — Say all men. 

Harry. — Well, then ; [reads ;] We hold this to be a 
geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, that — 

Mary. — I wont stand that. You've got to say some- 
thing about the women. 

Harry. — The word men, here, means women too. 

Mary. — Oh, yes ! but when you get a little further along, 
to the voting and holding office, you say it means men only. 

Frank. — Ho, ho ! woman rightist ! 

Harry. — Anything to please the crown. [Reads ;] We 
hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men, women 
and children are created equal ; that they have the right to 
earn their bread and molasses, to pay for their ice-cream, 
to go hunting, to play base ball, and to stand on their 
heads. The man, at present perched on the British throne, 
having meddled with these rights, oppressed us in various 
ways, insulted and abused us, and acted like a tyrant, we 
hereby declare ourselves out of the clutches of the British 
lion, and determined to whale any fellow who dares hint 
that we are not a little ahead of everybody else. [ Cheers.'] 

[Lucy sings Star Spangled Banner.'] 

Sam. — Ladles [hows] and gentlemen, [hows,] fellow- 
citizens [601^6'] and countrymen [6016'-:?] : This is an occa- 
sion that thrills every American heart with flaming patri- 
otism. AVe have met here to-day for the purpose of cele- 
brating the anniversary of one of the most thrilling events 
of history, the escape from the jaws of the British lion. 
We also meet to perpetuate the infinite, immutable doc- 
trine of universal liberty promulgated in the bewildering 
document just vocalized. 

Frank. — He's swallowed a dictionary! 

Sam. — It is fitting, on this day of days, to remember 
our fore-fathers, who planted their bare feet on the ice- 
bound Plymouth rock, and made the howling wilderness 
blossom like a delightful rose of Sharon. 

John. — He got that out of an almanac. 

Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-fathers, who rebelled 
and took up arms against oppressive tyranny ; who fit, 
bled and died. 



358 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Kate. — What did our fore-mothers do ? 

Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-mothers, who cooked, 
spun and cried. Fellow-citizens, I am celestially proud 
to stand under the waving American flag. 

Frank. — You 're not, you 're before it. 

Sam. "Flag of the /ree heart's only home I 

By angel hands to valor given; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were bom in heaven." 

John. — Stolen thunder ! 

Sam. — I am proud of the American eagle, that glorious 
bird who stands with one foot on the shores of the Atlantic, 
and the other on the shores of the Pacific, with his stately 
head lost in the illimitable blue above, and who gathereth 
the people of all nationalities — French, Dutch, Irish, Afri- 
can, China, and Camanche — under his wings, as a hen 
gathereth her chickens. \_Immense opplause.'] My friends, 
the United States government is a magnificent engine, 
with a train of Pullman cars. Ere long, we shall hitch 
on San Domingo, Cuba, Mexico, Central and South 
America, Canada, Labrador, and Greenland, and then 
take a grand excursion around the Avorld. 

John. — How^ that eagle will have to stretch ! 

Sam. — Be patient, my verdant friends. The power of 
the American eagle is unmeasured. The principles of 
universal freedom shall become more universal. For you, 
ray dear hearers, a new day is dawning. To you, ladies, 
I repeat what Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson, 
" Every tub must soon stand on its own bottom." 

Kate. — Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson ? 

Frank. — He's crazy, away vv^ith him ! 

Sam. — Curb your noble rage, dear friends ; I am not 
mad, but a boot-black by trade, and an orator by pro- 
fession. Yes! the grand doctrine of universal freedom 
shall go on and on, sounding from brush-heap to brush- 
heap, from pig-pen to pig-pen, from ocean to ocean ; and 
the sun, moon and stars, sailing in all their primeval glory, 
shall catch up the bewildering strain, and — and — and — 
my friends, my emotions overwhelm me! Thanking you 
for your attention, I close. [^JJses a red handkerchief 
vigorously. Applause, explosion of torpedoes, music.'] 

Kate. — Form into procession, and march out to din- 
ner ! \_All march ouW] 

[Curtain falls.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 359 



GOOD FOR EVIL. 



CHARACTEES, 



Mr. Durant. 

Mrs. Durant* 

LiLLiE, ^ 

Eddie, ^ their Children, 

Charlie, J 

A Beggar. 

A Rich Lady. 



Scene 1. — A Parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Durant, Eddie and 
Charlie^ seated, Mr. Durant sits engaged in reading. 



Mrs. Durant. — Oh! how the wind blows; how cold 
it is ! I fear winter has come in earnest now. God help 
the poor ! 

Mr. Durant. — There you are again, wife, talking about 
the poor. There is work for them in the city, if they would 
only go at it. You gave that beggar some clothes yester- 
day, didn 't you ? 

Mrs. D. — Yes, husband, I did. I pitied him so ; he 
looked so pale and wan. 

Mr. D. — I want no more such work ; if we give every 
beggar something, we would soon have a host at the door. 
They'll not get another thing at John Darant's. 

Mrs. D. — Oh, John, remember how rich we are. You 
are worth your tens of thousands, and yet refuse to give 
to God's poor. In heaven, He will make no distinction. 
There, all shall be alike, the rich and the poor. 

Mr. D. [somewhat angry"]. — Don't preach to me, Sarah. 
I know what I am about. I know I 'm rich ; but not a 
cent of my money goes to feed vagabonds. Not a cent, 
I tell you ! 

Mrs. D. [wiping her eyes']. — John, I fear you will rue 
those words. But listen, here comes Lillie, and some one 
is with her. 

Mr. D. — One of those beggars, I guess. She must love 
them. But I will tame her. 



360 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

[^Enter Lillie, accompanied by a girl dressed in rags, shoe- 
less and honnetless.'] 

Mr. D. [angrily']. — What did you bring that vagabond 
in here for, Lillie ? 

Lillie. — She is a poor girl, papa, without any parents. 

Me. D.— She told you that, eh ? Well, it is the old 
tale. 

Beggar. — Kind people, I am very poor ; so poor, that 
I am forced to beg for a living. 

Mr. D. — Why don 't you work ? 

Beggar. — The folks will not hire me, I look too bad ; 
if I had better clothes, I could find work, I know. 

Mr. D. — Yes, no doubt, you could. You came here to 
tell me that story, I reckon. You'll get nothing from 
me. Lillie, take her out ! 

Mrs. D. — Oh, do not send her away so! She needs 
clothes. 

Lillie. — Yes, mamma. She shall have my shawl, and 
warm hood. 

Charlie. — And my shoes. 

Eddie. — And the silver dollar that's in my bank. 

Beggar. — You are very kind, children. You are very 
kind. 

Mr. D. — Children, you shall give her nothing! If she 
wants clothes and money, let her steal them, if she likes. 
She has done the like before, I dare say. Lillie, lead her 
to the door, I say ! 

Lillie. — Oh, papa, don't drive her away. 

Mr. D. [rising to his feef]. — Lillie, dare you disobey 
me? Take her away, this minute ! 

[Exit Lillie, followed by Beggar.] 

Mr. D. — There, wife, is one of your poor, as you choose 
to term them. 

Mrs. D. — One of His poor, husband. How dared you 
refuse to give her something ? 

Mr. D. — Oh, easily enough. I must not tell you the 
secret of it. I go to the store, now; but mind you, wife, 
allow no more vagabonds to step over our threshold. 

[F/xit Mr. Duranf] 

Mrs. D. — If any come, they shall be fed. 
[Ourtain falls.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 361 

Scene 2. — 3Ir. Durant, seated in an arm-chair, his head 
resting upon his hand. 

Mk. D. — Well, thus is life ! Five years ago, I was a 
millionaire, admired by a large circle of friends. But 
where am I now? Upon the brink of ruin ! Already 
men point to me, and say, " bankrupt ! " My wife, Charlie, 
and Eddie, have gone to the far-otf better land, and none 
is left to me but Liliie. It almost drives me mad, when I 
think about her. If I cannot raise ten thousand dollars 
to-morrow, I will be a bankrupt, and Liliie will be a 
beggar. Where that amount is to come from, I know not ! 
Oh, Thou who feedest the ravens, take care of my Liliie ; 
for before another sun shines, my body will be — . Oh, 
must this be the end of John Durant ? — the death of a 
suicide ? 

\_Enter Liliie, luho merrily climbs upon her father's lap, 
and raises his head.'] 

LiLLiE. — What is the matter with you, papa? you 
are sad. 

Mr. D. — Sad ! Yes, darling Liliie ; to-morrow, your 
papa will be a beggar, if — 

LiLLiE. — If what, papa ? 

Mk. D. — If I cannot command ten thousand dollars. 

LiLLiE. — That is a large sum ; but can 't we sell our 
costly furniture ? 

Mr. D. — Alas, no, Liliie ! It is under the auctioneer's 
hammer ! We are lost, Liliie ! I hoped to leave you to ' 
buffet the world, with gold ; but I must leave you a beggar. 
What will become of you, then ? [Kissing her.] 

LiLLiE. — God will take care of me. I will wait till He 
comes for me. He has said, "Suffer little children to come 
unto me." 

Mr. D. — He has, Liliie. But, hush ! a carriage is 
stopping before our door. Run and see who it is ! [Exit 
Liliie, in a hurry.'] Who can it be ? A creditor, no doubt. 
One who wants money; but it cannot be had. Every 
person I meet is a creditor, who duns me. There is but 
one refuge from them, and that is in — 

[Enter Liliie, hurriedly.] 

LiLLiE. — Oh, papa, tlierc is such a nice lady coming 
here ! She is so nicelv dressed ! Who can it be ? 



362 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Mr. D. — I know not, daughter ; but we shall soon see. 

[JL knock at the door. Lillie opens it. A richly-dressed 
lady enters, and seats her self. ]^ 

Lady [to Mr. Duranf], — Have I the honor of address- 
ing John Durant ? 

Mr. D. — You have, madam. 

Lady. — I see, you do not recognise me, Mr. Durant. 

Mr. D. — I do not, madam ; but, I suppose, you are a 
creditor. 

Lady. — I am Mrs. Chalpin ; and thank God, John 
Durant, I am not your creditor ; but you are mine. 

Mr. D. [rising']. — What ! Mrs. Chalpin, the wife of the 
millionaire, a debtor of mine ? Impossible ! Please explain. 

Lady. — With pleasure, sir. Years ago, when you rev- 
eled in wealth, a beggar came to your house, and asked 
for food and raiment. You refused her, and even forbade 
your children to help her. You drove her from your home. 
Your Lillie followed her to the door, and placed in her 
hand a ten-dollar gold piece. With that money the little 
beggar managed to keep from starving, until a kind rich 
man took, her to his house and supplied all her wants. 
She lived with her benefactor, and, not long since, was 
married, and is now wealthy. Mr. Durant, I am that 
beggar girl, whom you drove from your house. 

Mr. D. \_grasping her hands']. — I have repented of that 
act. AVill you forgive me ? 

Lady. — Forgive you ? Yes ; and I now wish to repay 
you ; to return good for evil. I hear that you stand on 
the verge of bankruptcy. 

Mr. D. — It is too true, madam. I am utterly unable 
to meet my liabilities. 

Lady. — What would save you ? 

Mr. D. — Ten thousand dollars. 

Lady [takes out paper and writes]. — Here, then, is a 
check on my bank for that amount ; take it, it is yours. 
[Hands check to Mr. Durant.] 

Mr. D. — Oh ! you are too kind. I do not deserve this 
kindness at your hands. 

Lady. — Say not so, though you yourself do not, your 
name docs. It was this little child, who saved me. [Stoops 
down and kisses Lillie.] 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 363 

LiLLiE. — Oh ! I am SO glad that you saved papa. God 
has heard my prayers. 

Lady. — And answered them, Lillie. \_Then to Mr. 
Durant ;] I go now, Mr. Durant. I am happy, for I have 
repaid a great debt. Let me admonish you to remember 
the golden rule : " Do unto others, as ye would that others 
should do unto you." Good-bye. \_Exit Lady.'] 

Lillie. — Oh, papa, you are saved now ! 

Mr. D. — Yes, I am saved, Lillie. For your sake, God 
has saved me ! and ever, henceforth, my motto will be, 
" Kemember the poor." 

[ Curtain falls.] 



LITTLE PIECES FOR LITTLE FOLKS. 



NOT SO EASY. 



Now you may think it very nice, 

And very easy, too, 
For a little boy to stand up here, 

With little else to do. 
But make his bow, and say a piece — 

To speak up loud and plain, — 
Then make another bow to close, 

And take his seat again. 



"O' 



But I can tell you, one and all, 

Which ever way you view it, — 
To face this crowd of gentle folks, 

It takes some pluck to do it. 
The saying is as true as old, 

*' Who gets a name must bwj it ; " 
If you don't credit what I say, 

Just walk up here and try it I 



WHAT I LIKE. 

[for two little boys.] 



George. — 

All the seasons I like, as they pass along, 
But winter 1 hjve the best, 
For it brings a joy, 
To the glad school boy, 
More pleaaing than all the rest. 
364 • 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 8G5 

I like to ride o'er the fleecy snow, 
When the air is crisp and clear ; 

For the jingle, jingle, jing, 

Of the sleigh-bells' ring. 
Sounds sweet to m}^ own little ear. 

Then I like to skate on the ice so smooth, — 
Ah, me ! how swiftly I go ; 

All the boys must look out, 

AYhen I am about, 
Or beat them I surely will do. 

But m}^ hand sleigh I must not forget, 
For my Monitor carries the day ; 
Tlien tell me each one, 
Since my piece is nigh done, 
If this ian't the season for frolic and play ? 
ClIiRLES. — 

/ love the winter, too, and hail 

Its coming with rare joy ; 
I love m}' skates and sled, as well 

As any other boy. 

Like George, I like to find myself 
In the robes so snug and nice, 

Behind a fleet, black, pon}" team. 
Gliding o'er snow and ice. 

Ah, 3^es ! for winter and its joys, 

A word I'll ever speak. 
For it makes me strong and vigorous, 

And gives color to my cheek, 

I love its cold and bracing air, 

I love the fleecy snow, 
And just for fun and exercise, 

A snow ball like to throw. 

But there are other things I love, 

Which must not be forgot. 
More to be prized than skates or sled, 

Or a two-forty trot. 

I mean my pleasant, happy school. 

My books and studies too, — 
This cheerful room — these teachers kind, 

To whom my love is due. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

My sports and plays are only means 
To nerve me for my work ; 

In the first I'll heartily engage, 
While the last I'll never shirk. 



FRED'S FIRST SPEECH. 
You've heard the fable, " Mouse and Pussy," 

And know it all by heart, no doubt — 
How Mouse's pains gave Pussy pleasure. 

As she tossed the little thing about ; 
And how Mouse said to cruel Pussy, 

With quivering lip and panting breath, 
" Though this, to you, may seem quite funny, 

To me 'tis only certain death." 
Now we're not mice, nor you tormentors ; 

Yet the fable, here, its moral brings ; 
For though these scenes to you give pleasure, 

They're aught but fun to us, poor things ! 
For if you deem it very easy 

For such as we to mount this place, 
And do the duties here assigned us. 

And meet these people face to face, 
Then let me tell you, you're mistaken ; 

And if you doubt my word, my friends, 
Just walk up here by me and try it, 

And you'll see how the matter ends. 
If you don't feel the color rising, 

And your strong voice begin to shake, 
And a misty cloud come o'er your vision. 

Why then— 2/ow may the premium take. 



WANT TO BE A SOLDIER. 

A PARODY. 

I want to be a soldier, 

And with the soldiers stand, 
A knapsack on my shoulder, 

A musket in my hand ; 
And with m^^ bayonet gleaming. 

So glorious and so bright, 
I'd join the gallant army. 

And for my country fight. 



1 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 367 

Though I should oft be wounded, 

I would not shed a tear ; 
Though in the midst of danger, 

I ne'er would feel a fear : 
But brave f,nd patriotic, 

Like our braver sires I'd fight, 
And with ten thousand soldiers 

Put rebels all to flight. 

Then let me be a soldier, 

And with the soldiers stand, 
A knapsack on my shoulder, 

A musket in my hand ; 
And with my bayonet gleaming. 

So glorious and so bright, 
I'd join the gallant army, 

And for my country fight. 

I know I'm young and tender. 

But, mother, dry your tears. 
For many young as I am 

Have joined the volunteers; 
And mother, should I perish, 

And for my country die, — 
I'd think of you and sister, 

And meet you in the sky. 



BLUE. 

As I was going up the street one day, 

I passed a wagon new, — 
I put my hand upon its side, 

And it was painted blue. 

I saw a maiden bright and fair, 
(For she was passing, too,) 

I put my hand upon her cheek. 
And it was painted blue. 

Her cheeks changed color very soon- 
Were variegated, too, — 

For while one side of them was red 
The other side was blue. 



368 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Her anger very soon arose, 
Which very soon I knew; 

And all because her rosy cheek 
Had just been painted blue. 

And now she will not me forgive ; 

Dear me I what shall I do ? 
And all the wrong that I have done, 

Her cheek I painted blue. 

"Well, well I it can not now be helped- 

I can not it undo ; 
But then / will not after this 

Young maiden's cheeks paint blue. 



WALTER'S FIRST SPEECH. 

While other boys have had their say 

Upon this platform here, 
Have stood up firm before you all, 

W^ithout a blush or fear, 
/"come with trembling heart and lips 

To make m}^ little bow, 
And make my first attempt to speak 

Before an audience now. 

And should I falter in my speech. 

You'll pardon me, I know. 
Since greater folks have done the same, 

Who could not make their speeches go. 
But if I do the best I can 

Here to fulfill my task, 
The best could not do more, you know, 

And 'tis all that you can ask. 

These boys have talked and sung to-day, 

Of our country and its cause ; 
I, too, must testify my love 

For her before I pause. 
I'm a Union boy from head to foot. 

This fact just bear in mind ; 
True to my country and its flag, 

No copper here^ you'll find I 

* Pointing to his head. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 369 



EXAMINATION-DAY. 

Examination-day I How many little hearts 
Within these walls, have shuddered at that word. 
And do you wonder much, that timid boys, 
And modest misses, such as these you see, 
Should shrink from being marshaled out 
Before this gazing crowd, to sing, declaim, 
And answer all the questions, plain and right, 
The teachers choose to ask, though it require 
To ransack through their knowledge-box, from top 
To bottom, ere they find the answers clear, 
And all these people looking on, to see 
If we should chance to fail ? 

I wonder what these wise committee-men 
Would think, if they were yearly marshaled out, 
And made to stand up here, like us, and tell 
This audience all they knew about the world. 
Its countries and their products, — all they knew 
About the people, and their modes of life. 
And then to tell us about this " house we live in," 
Its bones and muscles, v«ins, and brains, and nerves. 
(I guess they'd find they had the nerves.) ' 

And then to think of all these puzzling sums 

In Stoddard, to say nothing of the work 

Of Thompson's written ones. How would they like 

To stand up here, with chalk in hand, and add, 

Subtract, divide, and multiply in fractions. 

Simple, compound, proper, and improper ? 

(By the way, / think they're all improper.) 

And then I'd like to know how you would feel, 
To stand up in this place and bear your part 
In dialogue, or declamation, while 
Every eye and ear was watching you — 
Was watching every word and motion. 
And you, poor soul, a-trembling in your shoes. 
I think you'd say, ns did the mouse of old, 
To pussy cat, " This may be fun to you, 
But it is death to me." ^ ^ * 

Say, then, do you not pity us ? I know 
The ladies do. I see it in their eyes : 
Our wise committee, too, look kindly on us, 
And from our very hearts we thank you all. 
24 



370 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 



CLOSE OF SCHOOL. 



Kind Friends — Within our school-room walls we gladly see 
you meeting, 

And haste to bid you welcome ; pray receive our heartfelt 
greeting. 

You've come to listen to our songs, orations and discourses. 

Pray look not for broad rivers, friends, so near their tiny sources. 

We'll gladly do our best for you, and kindly you'll remember. 

The April of our lives can't yield the rich fruits of September; 

But if our offering you'll accept — the early leaves of Spring — 

We'll make no more apologies, but will read, converse and sing. 

We schoolboys, honored friends, are like a hive of busy bees, 

As they their waxen cells do store, so we store our memories. 

As they enjoy the bright sunshine, and oft wing their way aloft, 

So love we well the summer shine, and we wish for wings full 
oft? 

They sip the honey from the flowers ; we have what's no less 
sweet, 

For candy of molasses made doth yield us many a treat I 

Troubles they have, and so, friends, we have some troubles of 
our own ; 

Some big ones have they that wont work, — ive are not without 
a drone. 

Yet differ we in some respects, for we must obey our rule ; 

They buzz at work ; 'tis very hard I but we may not buzz in 
school. 

They have a queen, and hard they work to win her approba- 
tion ; 

We have no queen, but teachers kind, and love their commen- 
dation. 

And happy are the hours, dear friends, which we spend within 
these walls. 

Attentive to Instruction's voice, obedient to her calls. 

And to our God we raise our hearts in most loving, grateful 
praise, 

That in this land of Public Schools we may spend our youth- 
ful days. 

Where knowledge free as sunshine is, and as plentiful as dew. 

And learnihg's precious stores wide-spread, like flowers of va- 
ried hue 1 

And not for us alone the good of public education. 

For girls and boys the blessing will endure while we're a nation. 



SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 371 



EXHIBITION^ DAY. 

Youth and childhood are the seasons, 

We are told, for mirth and joy, 
Sighs and cares were not intended 

For a lassie or a boy. 
But if not, we see not wherefore 

Were invented days like these, 
When each boy and girl's expected 

To astonish and to please 
Such a crowd of goodl}^ persons 

As before us now appear — 
Such a crowd as ever greet us, 

In this place from year to year. 

Now, we ask you — here we ask you, 

Think you. that this costs us naught? 
If so, you are quite mistaken, 

Days like these are dearly bought; 
Bought with anxious fear and trembling, 

With some thought and study, too ; 
Eor it takes not much, to puzzle 

Smaller brains, whate'er they do. 
Tho' we are not wise or learned, 

Let me tell you, every one 
Who to-day appears before you, 

Thinks this any thing hut fun. 
Now and here again we ask you. 

Would 3^ou, could you, stand up here — 
Take our place and face these people. 

Without trembling, care, or fear ? 
If not, then you will not blame us. 

Or expect too much to-day, 
But look kind]y on our errors. 

And with smiles cheer on our way. 



CHARLIE'S SPEECH. 

Brother Will has said his piece, 

I'll try my little hand, 
Although I own it's pretty hard 

Before so many folks to stand. 



373 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 

Little folks should not be heard 



Only seen, some people say, 
So I will end my little speech, 

Since you have all seen me to-day. 

THE FOUR -YEAR -OLD. 

If you expect great things of me, 

I fear you'll be mistaken, 
Though it is something great, I own, 

Which I have undertaken, 
To let my little voice be heard 

In such a place as this, 
And all these people here to see 

How wondrous hard it is. 
But I will brave it like a man 

In hopes some day to stand 
In a larger place than this. 

Within our noble land. 
And let my voice be heard once more, 
In stirring: tones, the nation o'er. 



WILLIE'S SPEECH. 
X am sure you can't expect great thingj 

From one so young as I, 
And yet, to do my very best, 

I here, and now, will try. 
The greatest men who ever lived, 

Were once but little boys ; 
They had their sports as well as we, 

And played with tops and toys. 
They had to learn first lessons, too — 

To read, and write, and spell ; 
To speak their lessons on the stage, 

And try to do them well. 
I doubt if Everett or Webster, 

Or even Henry Clay, 
Didn't tremble in his shoes, when first 

He tried his piece to say. 
So you must not expect too much 

Nor criticise us here, 
While we appear before you all 

With trembling and with fear. 



BEST THINGS FROM BEST AUTHORS. 




BY J. W. SHOEMAKER, A.M., 

PKOFESSOR OF ELOCUTION. 

The Elocutionist's Annual has been prepared to supply a growing demand for a 
fresh, cheap book of Selections, Dialogues, Tableaux, etc., and the price has been 
placed so low that it is within the reach of all. Each book contains nearly 200 large 
12mo. pages, on heavy, strong paper, in clear, open-faced type, easy to read, and com- 
1 irises pieces suitable for >Ctg^Tlie Holidays, Scliool Exliibitions, l-y- 
ceiims and. Literary Societies, A."iiniversaries, CliiircJi and 
Snnday Scliool Gatherings, E^ducational, Tempei'ance, and 
Political Meetin§^s, and a lax-^e and -varied list of Selections 
for Public and Professional E^ntertainmeuts. 

NUMBERS 1 and 2 NOW READY! 
AND A NEW VOLUME WILL BE ISSUED REGULARLY EACH YEAR, 

TJiey are Pronounced the Best, Cheapest, and most Popular Collections of Readings, 
Declamations, Dialogues, Tableaux, etc., ever published. 

Prices, post-paid: Paper edition, 35 cents; Cloth edition, 75 cents; Green and Gold 
edition, 81.00. A liberal discount made when ordered by the dozen or hundred. 

J. W. DAUGHADAT & CO., Publishers, 

Nos. 434 and 436 Walnut Street, 

PHILADELPHIA, PA. 



A. GRE/kT SUCCESS! 

'Wholly free from anything ohjectionable, and covers so -wide a range of subject 
and style that all tastes can be suited." — Chicago Advance. 




■ii&:i^^B.Mm'Em 



A NEW, CHDICc, AND VARIED COLLECTION OF 

OEIGINAL DIALOGUES, TABLEAUX, ETC., ETC., 

Arhipterl to the ivanfs of School Exhibitions', I,iterary Societifs, T,y re- 
nins, TliG Iloliddi/.s, JjOilijfH, Ckurcli, Swiulai/ School and Sociable 
Gatherings, Tenn>erance Meetinys, Parlor .Entertainments, etc. 

COMPILED BY WILLIAM M. CLAEK, 

Editor of the Schoolday Magazine. 



No similar book has ever been published which has provided so wide a range of 
'subjects, or such a variety of style. It contains between seventy and eighty pieces, 
written expressly for the work by more than thirty prominent American writers, in 
which is represented almost every imaginable phase of sentiment and emotion. 
Every Dialogue is full of life and nature. The subjects are well chosen, practical, 
and suggestive. It is adapted to all ar/ea, to all times, and to all localities. The ma- 
terials have been wrought together with a distinct object in view, and nothing has 
been used to " fill up." The pages are compact with the best work of the best hands, 
and one can not look through the book without seeing its adaptability to the purposes 
designed. The rehearsal and acting of its pieces will make voices more musical and 
language more eloquent, while the lessons inculcated will not only make homes more 
attractive, but promote good manners and pure conversation. 

In the prei>aration of Model Dialogues, preference has generally been given to 
pictures of the cheerful or humorous side of life, rather than to those of the melan- 
choly, tlie Pharisaical, or the sentimental ; while in many cases a bit of ridicule has 
been so ingeniously put, that it will enable certain ^classes of folks to see themselves as 
others see them, more effectually than by any other means. 

The book contains 371 pages, the size of this, well and handsomely bound in cloth. 
Price, post paid, $1.50. 

"After a careful examination of Model Dialogues, we have no hesitation in pro- 
nouncing it the best work of the sort we ever saw." — lledrtli. and Home 

"This book will be much in demand. The Dialogues all read well, and have a good 
moral. Tliey will cause much laughter and some tears. If we must have Exhibi- 
tions, we are glad to have such good material provided for use." — Rural New Yorker. 
"It would be hard to get together such another variety, with so little ex- 
ceptionable in morals. We can give it a hearty word of commendation." — Neiv York 
School Journal "A very excellent collection of Dialogues, etc. Of speech- 
making we have more than enough; but in our social intercourse, conversation is 
becoming one of the 'lost arts.' The rehearsal of these Dialogues may tend to 

bring about a new order of things." — I'lnla. New Age " While the vein of 

humor in many pieces is rich, we find none of them sacrificing sense to nonsense. 

They are instructive without being heavy." — Sunday School Times "Every 

page bears the impi'ess of a genius in this department of work." — Methodist Home 

.Journal "It has a rich variety of style and sentiment, adapted to a??, og'fjs, 

to all times, and to all localities. It will wear well within and m ithout." — Methodist 

Recorder "We know of no one book from which so much matter of a good 

character may bo taken as from Model Dialogues." — Christian Inslructor (U. P.). 

J. W. DAUGHADAY & CO., Publishers, 

434 and 436 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 






ELEVENTH EDITION, 



M®M©®lfl[a: 



EDITED BY ALEXANDER CLARK, A. M. 

There is no species of recitation in which both young and old can take 
more dehght, or evince more enthusiasm, than in dialogue; and there is 
no better medium for the cultivation of a beautiful and effective style of el- 
ocution. 

Although this book is composed, for the most part, of substantial subject 
matter, yet there \vill be found quite a number of humorous pieces. 

We feel sure that all will enjoy this book, and be aided thereby in discov- 
ering wrong habits and dangerous tendencies in themselves and in others, 
for here they will feel the words and enjoy the utterances as their own. 
It has received the highest encomiums of the newspaper press in all parts 
of the country, and we can heartily recommend it to every teacher, and its 
introduction into every household. 

CONTENTS. 



True Manhness. 

The Tobacco Pledge. 

The New Muff and Col- 
lar. 

Choose Your Words. 

Effects of War. 

The Two Interpreters 
of Dreams. 

The Four Seasons. 

School Affairs in River- 
head District. 

Novel Reading. 

Demons of the Glass. 

The Twelve Months, 

The New Preacher, 

The Seasons, 

Little Angels, 

The Young Statesman, 

Two Ways of Life, 

Too Good to Attend 
Common School, 

Fireside Colloquy, 

Pocahontas, 

Beauty of Face and 
Beauty of Soul, 

Uncle Zeke's Opinion, 

SpelUng Class, 

The Two Teachers, 

Memory and Hope, 

A Contentious Commu- 
nity, 

Lost and Found, 



The Tri-Colors, 

Annie's Party, 

The Reclaimed Brother; 

or,The Chain of Roses 
Reformation, 
Seeing a Ghost, 
The Motto or Example, 
Choosing a Trade or 

Profession, 
Child-Philosophy, 
The Noblest Hero, 
Woman's Rights, 
The Orphan's Trust, 
Mrs. Smith's Boarder, 
La Teune Malade, 
Night and Morning, 
Scandal on the Brain, 
The Common Bond, 
Phrenology, 
Correct Habits, 
The Secret, 
The Two Friends, 
Killed with Kindness, 
The Sisters, 
Management ; or. The 

Folly of Fashion, 
Columbus at the Court 

of Spain, 
The Silver Dollar, 
Oil on the Brain, 
Going to be an Orator, 



Two Faults, 

Grumbling over Lessons 

Behind the Scenes, 

The Test, 

Thanksgiving, 

Matrimonial Advertise- 
ments, 

Changing Servants, 

The Rehearsal, 

Deaf Uncle Zed. 

Egyptian Debate, 

Widow Muggins — Her 
Opinion, 

Marrying for Money, 

The Conflict, 

Life : — A School Scene, 

Ben, the Orphan Boy, 

Convict's Soliloquy; or, 
the Night before Exe- 
cution, 

John Jones' Fortune, 

In Want of a Servant, 

Not so Easy, 

What I Like, 

I Want to be a Soldier, 

Blue, 

Examination Day, 

Close of School, 

Walter's First Speech, 

Exhibition Day, 

Charlie's Speech, 

Four- Year-Old. 



Quackery 

i2mo. 352 pages, in substantial cloth binding, sent, post-paid, for ^i.Sa 
J. W. DAUGHADAY & CO., Publishers, 

434 and 436 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 




The Schooldat Magazine is the oldest, and pronounced by the Press and people 
to be the best and cheapest Young People's Monthly published in this country. It 
was established in 1856, and will continue to be a safe and entertaining periodical 

FOR ALL HOMES AND SCHOOLS. 

The Schoolday Magazine is a large, double-column octavo, well illustrated, and has 
as regular contributors some of the very best writers in this country. 

It has been so long and favorably known that its name has become a household 
word, almost wherever we go, and its monthly visits are hailed with joy throughout • 
every State and Territory of the whole Union, w.hile it has won the proud title of 

Our Young Polk's Favorite, 

among all the numerous magazines and periodicals which have followed it. 

Its list of contents consists of Good Siories and Sketches, brief Historical and Bio- 
graphical Papers, Letters, Notes of Travel, Familiar Tllusiraiinns of Scientific Sub- 
jects, Dialogues, Readings and Recitations, with special instructions in the fascinating 
art of Elocution, Problems, Puzzles, Rebuses, Humorous Articles, Music, etc., from 
which something can be found to please the taste and "tickle the fancy" of all. 
OuE LITTLE FOLKS have always a special corner set apai-t expressly for themselves in 

UNCLE CHARLIE'S LETTER BOX, 

which has become not only immensely popular with tens of thousands of little 
ones from the Atlantic to the Pacific, but looked for with almost equal anxiety by 
the fathers and mothers themselves. 

A series of articles upon " How to Say Things," by J. W. Shoemaker, A. M., Pro- 
fessor of Elocution, one of our most cultured and successful Elocutionists, besides the 
many articles published adapted for readings, recitations, declamations, etc., etc., 
have made the Magazine so popular that teachers in all sections of the country are 
using it as . 

.A. SOXIOOIL. I^EA^IDEE.- 

A large and beautiful picture is given free to every subscriber. Subscriptions 
received or clubs can be formed at any time. Back numbers can always be supplied* 

imeore: .agents iata-nted. 

Send a three-cent stamp for terms and full instructions to Agents. Address, 

J. W. DAUGHADAT & CO., Publishers, 

Nos. 434 and 436 Walnut Street, 

PHILADELPHIA, PA. 



118 



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